


Shufùtu-zailû

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU ending, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Bilbo and Thorin really don't get along, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Goldsickness, In a later chapter, M/M, Nazgul - Freeform, Telekinesis, everything is the same but different, until they really do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 71,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formerly titled: Telekinesis</p>
<p>Bilbo Baggins of Bag End had been born with an unusual talent: the ability to move objects with his mind. But only when he is reluctantly drawn into Thorin Oakenshield's quest he learns to wield this power. He faces orcs, trolls and a dragon, and also learns that even a small hobbit may play a larger part, that his heart is a whimsical thing, and that home means more than just a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). An [amazing banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) has been made by the lovely [penumbriafics](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/) and more art shall follow soon! 
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Now, **warnings** : the fic will have a little sexual content and quite some violence. I will put the warning in the note atop of every chapter - please heed them. (Also, if something made you uncomfortable, let me know!) This chapter is harmless!

Bilbo Baggins wakes to his house coat floating in the air next to his bed. As he is long past the age of fearing ghosts (those exist, do not particularly care for hobbits and, contrary to hobbit children’s imaginations, do not wear bedsheets) he neither screams nor flinches, but sits up with a frown. A moment of concentration on that throbbing spot beneath his heart cuts the thread and the gown falls to the ground, but Bilbo keeps glaring at it.

It’s been a while since this happened last. He’s worked hard to get this particular talent of his under control and harder to keep it under wraps. Three decades since he last slipped up and most of Hobbiton has forgotten about that incident where Lobelia Sackville mysteriously flew into a pond. Or the floating apple pies of the late Mrs. Bolger. However, they haven’t forgotten enough to readmit Bilbo to participate in the official conkers contests, even though that truly is just talent.

A rich breakfast isn’t quite enough to pull Bilbo from the funk the sudden reemergence of his talent has caused, so after staring at the blank page that is supposed to become a short story for a while, he gives it up and heads outside. It’s a beautiful, warm day in early spring with white, puffy clouds dotting the sky and he can just feel those endless, sunny days of summer lurking beyond the corner.

But the day already began strangely, so later, Bilbo chastises himself for expecting it to end any differently. Though even in his wildest imaginations, he probably could not have foreseen the road it would take.

Faced with a weird, tall stranger who refuses to understand a solid “good morning”, Bilbo reluctantly engages him. Now that the name has been revealed – Gandalf – he does remember the wizard and his fireworks. And his absence when he would have been needed, namely those horrible five years after Bilbo’s talent first manifested itself.

Hobbiton had been appalled.

“Not natural”, some had whispered. “Cursed,” and “a bad omen,” the particularly superstitious had said. His poor parents had been worried out of their minds, with his mother proposing to take him to Rivendell or seek out Gandalf.

“Unlike you, I have not known any elves in person and Gandalf merely in passing,” Bilbo had overheard his father say one night, hiding behind a door far past his bedtime, “But from what I know this kind of ability would seem remarkable, even among them. I do not doubt your friends’ honesty, but I fear what wider knowledge of his ability may mean for Bilbo. I would not want for him to become a pawn in the big peoples’ games, not before he is old enough to decide for himself.”

Merely a teen then, no matter how much he would have loved to leave Hobbiton – especially Hobbiton as it was then, where his few remaining friends needed to sneak away from their parents to play with him – big people frightened him more. And aside from the early, uncontrolled manifestations of his ability, it did grow manageable. Bilbo learned to associate that strange sensation just beneath his heart – sometimes a tickle, sometimes a throb – with his power and soon could control it. His friends preferred the benefits of his ability to pluck stray kites, apples and pies from even the highest of places and the rest of Hobbiton tried their best to forget about his “abnormality”.

Things took another spin once the Fell Winter arrived, but Bilbo resolutely shoves those memories aside. Gandalf would have been more helpful then, anyway, but never turned up. So he doesn’t feel all that terrible for telling the wizard that he won’t join his obscure adventure and stomps away.

***

By the time the sun has set, Bilbo has mostly forgotten about the unusual encounter. He has tidied his study, visited the market and gone on to create a dinner more suited for a festival day than an ordinary evening. The routine gestures have helped calm his nerves – but the world has not changed and the throbbing in his blood has merely quietened.

It won’t do to be upset, he thinks to himself as he puts the sizzling fish onto his plate. Who knows what could happen – adventure is courting disaster. Bilbo sits down, reaches for the lemon – and a knock freezes him on the spot. It probably is just an annoying neighbor with no regard for propriety, but

Bilbo’s heart is a nervous thing and flutters in his chest. He takes a deep breath just before opening the door – and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Dwalin,” the dwarf introduces himself and bows politely. Bilbo only sees sharp axes, muscles and a tattooed head. The spot beneath his heart twinges, though before Bilbo can quite figure out how to defend himself – force the door shut, get the dwarf’s axes away from him, hit him with the cloak stand – Dwalin pushes past him and marches straight into the kitchen. Bilbo concentrates on that spot underneath his heart and feels for the calm, coiled presence of his power - armed with that he follows.

Dwalin has settled in Bilbo’s spot and is cheerfully devouring the fish. While not exactly a declaration of violent intent, Bilbo is a hobbit fond of his food and with a flick of his finger makes the thick iron pan behind Dwalin rise into the air. The dwarf is watching him, Bilbo realizes – he does look like a hardened warrior, of course he will be on guard – but even experienced warriors have no eyes on the back of their head.

The pan hovers in mid-air just above the tattooed head and Bilbo contemplates whether dropping it will suffice – when the doorbell rings again.

Within a few minutes he ends up with more dwarves in his house than he can count and his treacherous powers tease him by either suggesting he float all of them out (Impossible. He knows there is a limit to the weight and size of things he can shift. Discovering that was painful enough; he does not need a repeat.) or simply going to hide in his bedroom until they’ve moved on.

Gandalf does nothing except laugh at Bilbo’s bewilderment and it does not endear the wizard to the hobbit. Instead Bilbo shifts the chandelier just so – and when Gandalf turns he hits his head. It’s petty, Bilbo thinks as he watches the wizard curse under his breath, but it is a form of revenge.

And he does not yet feel like throwing them all out, revealing his power and causing an uproar in the neighborhood simultaneously.

Abruptly an arm is slung over his shoulder. “So you must be Gandalf’s burglar,” a voice far too close to his ear exclaims, “Great house you’ve got here. Did ya get that all from stealin’? Didn’t think it was that lucrative.”

Bilbo tries to slither away, but the grip on his shoulder is firm. “It’s an heirloom,” he responds icily, though the fellow - wearing the strangest hat he ever saw - just laughs merrily.

“So it’s a family tradition, burglarizing?” he asks and Bilbo regretfully looks to the chandelier. It’s too high above their heads to accidentally hit the dwarf – he’d have to pull out the fixtures.

“You’d get along great with Nori – oh, hey, there he is!” not that the dwarf seems to sense the black thoughts on Bilbo’s mind. “Nori, over here! Come and meet our burglar!” He waves cheerfully at another dwarf with the most absurd hairdo Bilbo has ever seen – including Lobelia’s terrible hats – and Bilbo uses the chance to slip out of the inescapable, friendly hold.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Bilbo states coolly, “There must have been a misunderstanding. I am certainly no burglar.”

The dwarf with the star-shaped hairdo – Nori – looks him over from his hair to his feet and shakes his head. “No, indeed. Bofur, look at the fellow – no respectable burglar would be seen wearing suspenders.”

Bilbo is gaping after him when a quieter voice speaks up. “Please don’t mind my brother, Mister Baggins. I am sure you are an excellent burglar.”

The dwarf – certainly younger than him – is still is nearly a head taller. Madness, Bilbo thinks to himself and takes a deep breath, all of them are mad and Gandalf is the worst of all of them.

“But don’t you want to get some food as well?” the youngest continues on obliviously, “I’m afraid they don’t particularly care for manners, but I think it would be shameful to have the host miss out on his own food.”

Food that was never intended for raucous dwarves, Bilbo thinks, but the fellow’s polite tone does wonders to sooth his frazzled nerves.

“I do think I could do with a bite,” Bilbo agrees. Wine wouldn’t go amiss, either.

The young dwarf smiles. Then he takes Bilbo’s sleeve and turns toward the dining room. “Kili, Fili!” he calls, “Save a plate for Mister Baggins!”

“Sure, Ori. Ale as well? He’s got an excellent taste there, our Mister Boggins!” Bilbo can’t see which dwarf replies, but he certainly recalls which one mangled his name. And indeed, once he is unceremoniously shoved into a place between Dwalin and an elderly dwarf with an ear trumpet, the young, dark-haired dwarf – Kili – sets a plate piled high with food down in front of him.

“Enjoy your meal, Master Boggins,” he says with an ear-splitting grin.

“And an ale,” adds his blond brother, setting down a tankard.

“How about a toast?” Bofur shouts from another spot on the table, “To our host!”

As the dwarfs cheerfully lift their tankards to Bilbo, he can’t quite keep his mouth from twitching and eventually lifts his own cup, inclines his head, and uses the ensuing silence to ask. “Thank you very much. However, and I realize this is a very rude question, but allow me to ask – who are you exactly and why are you here?”

Kili’s jaw drops. “You don’t know?” he utters bewildered.

“You didn’t tell him?” another dwarf asks, directing a glare at Gandalf. The wizard, in the process of shuffling out of the dining room, freezes. Bristles. “Err, I did happen to –“

“He didn’t,” Bilbo interrupts firmly, “I’m afraid I was quite ill-prepared for your arrival. All our dear wizard mentioned to me was an adventure – which I’m afraid I have no interest in joining – before leaving again.”

Gandalf coughs into his pipe, but the white-haired dwarf – Balin – clears his throat. “In this case I will apologize on our behalf. We were promised food and rest at the house of Gandalf’s chosen companion for our journey. We did not mean to impose.”

Bilbo inclines his head. “I don’t think the misunderstanding is your fault, either,” he says, “But would you indulge me anyway? What is that adventure Gandalf mentioned? Something about burglary?”

The entire group titters. Dwalin next to him clenches a fist, and Balin leans forward, past his larger brother. “Nothing quite so scandalous.”

“Or even more so,” another silver-haired dwarf adds and crosses his arms under his chest.

“Not as if we hadn’t been called insane before,” Bofur mutters and the dwarf next to him – with an axe embedded in his forehead, Bilbo notices to his consternation – nods emphatically.

“We, Master Baggins,” Balin states, “Are the dwarves of Erebor.”

“And we will take back our homeland!” the young, blond dwarf adds fiercely.   

Bilbo blinks. Recalls sitting on his father’s knee and looking over maps of distant lands. Listening to legends of great battles and fearsome monsters. Heroes and villains.

“Erebor,” he echoes, “The Lonely Mountain? That’s far …”  Far beyond the Misty Mountains. On a clear day he can see their distant outlines from the borders of the Shire. Erebor must lie even farther on the other side.

A shudder runs down his spine. “Wasn’t Erebor taken by a dragon?”

The group falls silent. “Aye,” Dwalin next to him grunts, “Smaug. Descended in bright daylight and even our strongest warriors couldn’t do a thing.”

“You – you were there?” Bilbo feels his blood grow cold. He’d thought Dwalin a hardened warrior – and yet to think that this dwarf has seen a dragon descend changes everything. To Bilbo, dragons only ever existed in fairytales – creatures of myths and distant lands.

Dwalin nods, silent. Balin purses his lips. “Some of us were, yes.”

“We’re too young to have been there,” Fili adds with a shrug. “And some are in for the free beer,” Bofur says and raises his tankard.

The tension diffuses and Bilbo feels the ice recede from his body. Still –

“And we will reclaim Erebor!” Kili declares firmly, “Dragon or not!”

While several dwarfs cheerfully toast his words, Balin leans over to Bilbo once more. “Rumors suggest the dragon might be dead.”

“Ah,” Bilbo nods. Though he wouldn’t want to risk his life on a rumor like this.

“That is where the burglar comes in,” another dwarf says and sets down his ale forcefully. Bilbo turns politely to the red-haired giant, “You see, we need somebody to go in and find out whether or not the dragon is dead. If he’s dead, it’s all good. If not, there is an item the King needs to reclaim the mountain.”

“What kind of item?” Bilbo inquires, mentally bewildered at however Gandalf had gained the impression to consider him suited for such a role. Even while disregarding the distance to travel, sending a hobbit to a dragon must constitute the pinnacle of madness.

“The King should be the one to tell that tale,” the red-haired dwarf deigns, “Where is he, anyway?”

***

Thorin Oakenshield enters with the sense of self-importance Bilbo has long associated with bothersome relatives. The other dwarves fall respectfully silent, appear glad at his arrival, and to his surprise Bilbo catches even Gandalf inclining his head.

Certainly, the dwarf is tall and has a certain, attention-demanding look to him, but Bilbo has tolerated enough disrespect in his own home for one night. With a frown he steps forward, just as Gandalf introduces him as the fourteenth member.

Bilbo clears his throat. “Thank you very much, but I believe I can introduce myself. Bilbo Baggins. Mr…. Oakenshield, I presume?”

The dwarf’s face adopts an expression as if watching an especially impertinent child and Bilbo feels his opinion of Thorin Oakenshield sink even lower.

“Indeed. So you are the one Gandalf chose,” Thorin says and his voice sends a shiver down Bilbo’s spine, “What are your talents, then?”

Talents? Bilbo blinks and looks to Gandalf who only smiles sagely. Gandalf knows nothing of his ability Or was there something more to the wizard’s decision than a spontaneous and spiteful reaction to a hobbit not wanting to go on an adventure? There is something about Gandalf in this moment that makes Bilbo utterly wary, but he can’t reflect on it – not when there is an imperious dwarf expecting his answer.

“I have some skill at conkers,” Bilbo returns sharply, “Or cooking, if that is more to your interest. I am afraid you must provide me with some context before I can provide you with a sensible answer.”

Thorin snorts. And Bilbo does not stop his power from wrapping itself around the chandelier and beginning to tug it ever so slowly into the direction of Thorin Oakenshield’s very big head.

“Let us have a seat and some food first,” Gandalf intervenes.

The dwarfs hum in agreement and turn to the kitchen. Only Thorin remains where he stands, looking at Bilbo in disdain for a moment longer. Really, Bilbo thinks, even the Sackville-Baggins' have better manners.

So when the dwarf finally turns to follow after his companions, Bilbo wraps the invisible fingers of his power firmly around the dwarf's long coat and pulls. Hard.

When Thorin responds by stumbling and spluttering, Bilbo gives him the most disdainful expression he has and asks: "Are you alright?"

The dwarf massages his throat and glares at Bilbo. “Quite.”

In Thorin’s presence the dwarves have calmed down remarkably. Bilbo takes a spot in the corner, still displeased at having had to relinquish his home to these unexpected guests. With a frown he watches as Thorin is offered food with a degree of reverence. From his short acquaintance with Thorin Oakenshield he would not deem the dwarf worthy of such treatment.

And yet.

And yet.

Thorin must have been there when the dragon came. Young, perhaps even a child still. And wouldn’t that have been a turn-around, to be raised as a heir to one of the wealthiest kingdoms on Arda and lose everything within minutes. It still doesn’t make Thorin’s behavior acceptable – but Bilbo finds while he can despise him, he can’t quite hate him.

The rest of them, he finds, he hates even less. They may not be good for his nerves nor property nor sense of propriety – but it’s been ages since he last felt so alive.

He should not even be contemplating this, Bilbo thinks. It is madness - even for dwarves, robbing a dragon with a group of thirteen must constitute a lunatic's plan. And he doesn't even like Thorin Oakenshield.

And yet.

Gandalf was not completely wrong - his thirst for adventure had not completely been quelled. There is a kernel in him that has always looked up at the blue sky and wondered how far it stretched. Gazed at the distant mountains and dreamt of what lies beyond. Gazed at maps and tried the strange sounds of distant cities on his tongue.

The spot under his heart throbs. Dangerous, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his father warns, others may seek to abuse your powers. And yet leaving Hobbiton and the Shire behind may be his only chance at truly exercising his powers for once. Perhaps even finding out why he was given such a blessing - or curse.

He is no longer a hapless tween with no idea of the world. And while he may not be skilled with sword or bow, he wields a power he is certain will provide enough protection. A sword will not touch him when he can simply direct its blade elsewhere.

So maybe, Bilbo decides, maybe he will join this adventure. With that thought in mind he sets aside the blanket and rises from his chair. The tumult in his dining room has calmed considerably, the dwarves having settled with the remainders of his beer and wine and their pipes. A heady smell of pipeweed greets him when he enters the living room, and several faces turn to meet him.

Ignoring the young dwarves, Bilbo directs his feet toward Thorin and Balin and forces himself to ignore the many eyes watching him.

"I will join you," Bilbo agrees.

The dwarves begin to whisper excitedly and Bofur leans out to pat his head. Some faces, Bilbo sees, do look skeptical – Thorin, however, does not even pretend to be gladdened by the announcement.

“Give him the contract,” the dwarf rules and turns away. Balin procures a piece of folded parchment from the inner pocket of his coat, while Bilbo blinks – he’d heard dwarves were fussy and formal, but did they really need a contractual agreement on a suicidal, mad undertaking? He’d thought hobbits were the ones to have utterly formalized their lives, but apparently he had underestimated the dwarven specialty of translating madness into legal terms.

“Just the usual,” Balin tells him while Bilbo unfolds the paper and begins to read the tiny text. The language quickly descends far past the needed degree of detail and at the stomach-turning descriptions of evisceration Bilbo stops reading. He isn’t certain he is actually made for this.

“You know,” he tells the dwarves watching him expectantly, "I will join you, as I said. But I will not sign this contract."

Thorin frowns and Balin tilts his head. "Does the phrasing not please you? I am certain we could work out the terms."

Bilbo grimaces. "It’s not the terms or the contract. Those are fair enough – I am just not certain I want to sign onto this.”

Somebody chuckles in the background and Bilbo directs a wry smile Balin’s way. “I would ask you to give me time to consider, but I understand you need to be on your way as soon as possible. Which is why I would suggest the following: I will accompany you until I come to a decision. You do not lose any time and I doubt you will find anybody willing to be your burglar on this side of the Misty Mountains.”

Before Balin can say anything, somebody exclaims “Great!” in the background, while Thorin frowns. “You expect us to host you until you can make up your mind? Cover all your expenses in the meantime and protect you?”

"I believe tonight's feast and board as well as my second pantry’s contents ought to provide for any expenses," Bilbo returns quickly, "Any costs incurred on the road I can very well cover on my own. I will certainly be no drain on your resources."

"Aye, those foodstuffs would be mighty helpful," Dwalin says, "Though I believe it is in battle that you may find yourself ill equipped. We are unused to protecting others in battle – we depend on everybody being able to hold their own ground."

Bilbo gives him a wry smile. "Certainly, my kind are not skilled in the arts of war. But do you expect to find many battles ere you reach the mountain?"

The dwarves fall into an uncomfortable silence that makes Bilbo's hackles rise. So obviously the dwarves expect to run into trouble before they even get to the dragon.

Well, he thinks to himself, it’s not as if he couldn’t deal with that.

***

The next morning Bilbo wakes feeling slightly queasy. Far in the east the sky is growing lighter, overhead the stars still sparkle and promise a cloudless day. A good day for travel.

He swallows down the unease and drags his weary body from his bed, unable to dispel the notion that this may be the very last time he sees his own bed for a very long time. Perhaps forever – but that does not bear thinking about. There is much to do yet.

Breakfast to be prepared, letters to be mailed. Instructions to his tenants and to the mayor. A copy sent to the Thain and an apology to his aunt as he will likely miss her birthday. Maybe he can bring her a nice tea when he returns.

Bilbo shakes his head, feeling a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. If he returns, he will be deemed insane.

Perhaps he should stay. There is little reason to give up on the comforts of his home. What awaits is danger, trouble and turmoil. Possibly death, and he does not even know the dwarves well. Some seemed nice, though not Thorin Oakenshield. There is no rational reason for joining with the dwarves.

And yet –

When the sun peeks over the horizon and Bilbo closes the door to his home one last time, he cannot help but cast his eyes eastward. No cloud covers the still pearly sky, and the air is yet cool. Fresh green lines the roadside, spring flowers blooming along the path.

Deep in his chest something opens. For the first time in decades Bilbo feels a spark of that old, childish excitement.

 


	2. Trolls on the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company sets out from Hobbiton, Bilbo talks with his new companions and eventually they run into the trolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). An [amazing banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) has been made by the lovely [penumbriafics](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/) and more art shall follow soon! 
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Now, **warnings** : Canon-typical violence ahead in this chapter with some more gruesome references. Please beware.

The excitement doesn’t actually fade. But the routine of travel catches up with Bilbo by noon. He’s not used to riding, and while his pony is a friendly and gentle beast, his poor behind aches by the time he slides off. Roadside fare is different from a picnic, too, but mostly thanks to Thorin glaring at his company the moment he finishes eating.

Bilbo watches the landscape change and is glad to let Gandalf stew. Balin is willing to answer his questions and Bofur spends more than one evening trying to draw Bilbo into his bad jokes and raunchy tales. The hobbit steadfastly refuses to be impressed.

When – after emptying out a flask of wine – Bilbo eventually replies in kind, he wins the undying admiration of Fili and Kili. And, he thinks, Dwalin’s respect, too. Gandalf looks almost put out by how easily Bilbo gets along with the group of dwarves. But Bilbo remembers being a tween and takes a childish joy in unsettling the wizard a bit. Also he sometimes stretches out those invisible tendrils of his power and sends showers of pink cherry blossoms raining down on Thorin Oakenshield. Or has a low-hanging branch catch Gandalf’s hat.

One evening they make camp north of the old forest. Bilbo watches as the mist rises over the distant barrow downs.

“What is that?” Kili inquires, coming up next to Bilbo, “It looks cursed.”

An apt description, Bilbo thinks.

“Barrow downs, I believe,” Ori replies, “They say the Kings of old were buried here.”

A cold wind tugs at Bilbo’s hair. “They are,” he says, “And back at home they say they still wander at night.”

Kili shudders dramatically. “Such an evil place.”

“It is,” Bilbo agrees easily. He doubts the dwarves know all the tales. And they certainly won’t know those glimpses of true evil that hobbits know to linger here. “But between these and the Old Forest the Shire is fairly well-protected.”

Ori nods thoughtfully, while Fili – who has been silent so far – tilts his head. “Aren’t they a threat if they’re this dangerous?”

Bilbo smiles. “Neither trees nor ghosts can cross water. There is a reason why the Brandywine is considered the border.”

The dwarfs fall silent for a moment. Around them the light fades, and even though Bilbo knows they are a safe distance away – knows that there are protections set to keep the spirits from crossing the East-West road – feels the cold of the night air sink into his bones. What malice sleeps in these tombs is ancient, and one that, perhaps, his powers would not help against.

“What if the river freezes?” Ori inquires and Bilbo flinches as an unbidden memory rises.

He barely hears Fili’s reply – “did you see how wide that river was? This far south, I doubt winters get cold enough for it to freeze over” – and instead can feel the bite of a forgotten, terrible winter in his skin.

“They do not, usually,” he hears himself reply, “Except for one year.”

The Fell Winter. Bilbo avoids those memories; has not faced them for a long time. Like all hobbits he was glad when spring came and the snows melted. And even though the dead were many and grief gave birth to many vicious rumors, once summer came, the survivors had deigned to put peace above grievances.

Bilbo himself had not been awake when spring broke that year.

He can still recall the taste of iron on his lips, hot blood steaming in the freezing air of the falling night as he shifted trunk after trunk, fueled by desperation. Around him cadavers of wolves and fallen hobbits littered the snow-covered ground. New flakes drifted down, beginning to bury the red rivers trickling towards the frozen Brandywine.

Break the ice, they had planned. Break the ice and cut off the wolves and worse. The Shire’s stores had not emptied completely – but reports had spoken of orcs and robbers, bandits with their eyes set on the Shire’s dwindling stores. How many of them had found their ends in the old forest or in the barrow downs will never be known. Every so often personal belongings of one long deceased emerge from the forest or are found by an adventurous wanderer on the borders of the barrow-downs.

But they do not know how many lives were claimed that winter. The numbers of their own dead were high enough and the fear of counting another familiar face among them had driven Bilbo – still too young, but too uniquely gifted – out with the bounders.

The ice had been too thick. Weights and axes had barely managed to puncture it and spreading cracks had taken too long. They had underestimated how early night would come – had seen the oncoming snow storm and ignored it.

Bilbo had stood at a distance – the adults of the group wary of allowing him too close – and futilely attempted to grip the ice with his powers, at first. Then he had begun to hurl rocks. And when the first wolf’s howl echoed he had cast caution aside and reached for a trunk.

After that it had descended into chaos.

The wolf pack had been close already. One had taken Willbald Greentub by surprise, and soon they found themselves fighting for their lives. And more wolves kept coming across the river. Bilbo had then reached out and violently flung the dead trunk against the ice.

Again and again. Until his body started hurting and he tasted copper in his mouth. Until the world spun into a whirlwind of red and white and black. Until he knew no more.

Bilbo turns away from the gloomy sight and dismisses the memories. Past, he tells himself, it is all past.

***

Beyond Bree, the landscape grows rougher. The Shire’s gentle rolling hills turn into steep slopes and rock emerges from beneath the earth as they pass the Weather Hills. Soon the Misty Mountains are no longer on the distant horizon; their snow-capped peaks are a steady companion to their left. They’ll be taking the high pass, Thorin announces one night, shutting down Gandalf’s suggestion they visit Rivendell.

“The High Pass is tricky, certainly,” Balin explains to Bilbo later, “It’s smaller and prone to avalanches. But the lower pass is often preyed upon by bandits.”

Bilbo shudders.

“But so are the great roads,” Dwalin adds from the side, “The wilderness is not safe in general. But do not fear, Master Baggins – your company is more than capable of dealing with some highway robbers.”

“I’m sure of it,” Bilbo replies graciously, though he has heard of bandit groups with numbers far larger than their companies. And even if his companions seem tall to him – they are still dwarves.

The days, however, pass peacefully. Thorin continues to glower at every rock and tree they pass, Kili and Fili try to invent ridiculous games, Balin tells stories and Bofur tells jokes. Gandalf tries to persuade Thorin, but the King is not very willing to listen and the rest of the company loyally backs their scowling leader.

Bilbo is utterly amused at the childish behavior. When Thorin refuses to take Gandalf’s advice about not setting up camp around the ruins of a farm house, the wizard has had enough and stalks off.

Of course they discover the reason for the farmhouse’s destruction later that night. Bilbo discovers it with Fili and Kili when they discover where their missing ponies disappeared to. Three humongous trolls crouching over a pot of stew and contemplating the characteristics of horseflesh out loud.

“You’re so small, they’ll never see you,” Fili tells him. Bilbo grimaces, unconvinced. They do have to do something quickly, else they’ll be at least one pony short tomorrow (and Bilbo just doesn’t wish this kind of end on any of their ponies). He’s not entirely certain Fili and Kili would actually stand a fighting chance – troll skin is notoriously thick and they do have a distinctive weight and height advantage.

Even his special ability would probably not give him much of an advantage. But coupled with his ability to be quiet it may just be enough.

“You go and inform the others,” he tells the two young  brothers, “If I get them out, they need to be ready to run.”

Kili nods diligently, though Fili looks surprised at his determination.  “Are you sure? What if you get into trouble?”

Bilbo gives him a wry grin. “If you hear screaming, run into the other direction.” Because when it comes down to it, the dwarves are not much taller than he is and he doubts their weapons will be able to penetrate troll skin. Really, running - as every hobbit knows - is generally the best strategy.

Bilbo is halfway to the ponies, when the smell hits his face. It is terrible, and he remembers that time when he was visiting his Took cousins over a holiday and an issue with the plumbing and the food occurred simultaneously – it had taken weeks for the stench to clear.

This is infinitely worse. No wonder the ponies are panicked.

Bilbo grimaces and sinks down in a bush. Out of sight, and out of the smelly air. Now he only has to rescue the ponies.

Well. Levitating four ponies might be ambitious - but perhaps he can open the gate to the paddock? Or destabilize it?

He reaches out with his power, and finds that for such shoddy work the paddock is surprisingly stable. Tearing it apart would just draw the trolls’ attention, and spook the ponies further. No – but –

Myrtle looks just so terribly, terribly scared. She’s whining and hovering uncertainly next to her fellow ponies, then taken a few steps forward, backward –

Bilbo’s heart aches and, well, for Myrtle he’ll just do it. Just this once. Especially since the dwarves aren’t nearby and the trolls aren’t looking. It’ll be their little secret – like the apples Bilbo snuck her. And the rants about stubborn dwarves that nobody but Myrtle has heard. And the fact that when she once nipped Thorin’s pony and caused it to almost buck the dwarf off, Bilbo was secretly cheering her on.

They have a lot of secrets already, so one more is not going to hurt.

So he gently enfolds Myrtle in his telekinetic hold and lifts her – the poor thing does whinny, but is too scared to do much more.  Being levitated is always a disconcerting experience (or so Bilbo has been told. He has never made the experience himself, and well – he can stand on objects he levitates, though that is a little tricky and quite strange).

And since Bilbo is not going to set her down right next to the trolls, he’ll just lift her a little further, even though his bones begin aching. But he is careful – both in order not to scare his favorite pony, and not to overexert himself.

What he has not truly considered is, that while he is floating Myrtle away behind two of the trolls’ backs, the third has but to turn his head a little – and he does. Bilbo curses under his breath, but keeps his hold on the pony.

The troll’s eyes bulge. “What is – “

And then a horde of screaming dwarves descends upon them. At least that way nobody notices the flying pony in the background.

The other ponies, Bilbo resolves as he sets Myrtle down, will have to be rescued manually. No matter the stench. It just won’t do to add flying ponies into the mix when the dwarves are already doing their best to catapult themselves up to the trolls’ level.

With a curse Bilbo leaves his cover and throws himself into the fray. Dodges a troll hand, slips by Nori, and then Dwalin intercepts a foot that would have caught the hobbit in the chest. His heart jumps, and Bilbo turns to thank him.

“Get out of the way!” Dwalin roars and is gone already. The blood is pounding in Bilbo’s head, and he weakly stumbles on. He can hear the ponies whinny. This is –

A scream goes up to his right, and he sees Fili on the ground, just behind a troll – a troll that is off balance. The giant sways, and Fili grasps at the ground, trying to get away, but his leg is stuck, and Kili is shouting, and Thorin is running across the field –

But he will not be in time.

Bilbo sees it, and before he knows what he is doing he has lashed out with the entirety of his power. The troll is lifted off the ground, propelled backwards, past Fili – and pain explodes in Bilbo’s chest.

The troll is on the heavy side. And not heavy like a wheelbarrow full of fresh picked apples, but an ugly sort of heavy that makes Bilbo feel as if his chest is ripped apart, rip by rip, while someone is crushing his lungs and pressing on his heart -

Not good, he thinks, and then it’s all black.

_tbc_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramblings and stuff and reblogs of fanart --> [paranoidfridge](http://www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/).


	3. Wargs and Orcs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the frying pan into the fire, or: after trolls come wargs and orcs. Featuring another wizard and - much to the dwarves' displeasure - elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). An [amazing banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) has been made by the lovely [penumbriafics](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/) and more art shall follow soon! 
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Now, **warnings** : This chapter features canon-typical violence of the more gruesome variant.

When Bilbo wakes up, his entire body is hurting and he is tied in a sack. The world blurs, a spike of sharp pain races up his spine, and he involuntarily groans – he’d rather not have woken. Also, it’s loud and there is smoke in the air, making it even harder for his poor lungs to expand.

Something reddish is flickering and –

There were trolls. Bilbo would have sat abruptly, had he not been tied up. So he just straightens and blinks, and wants to bash his head against a rock as the memories flood back. Dwarves. Really. Have to turn everything into some dramatic battle.

(Well, they did seem to know what they were doing. With the fighting. More so than Bilbo had attempting to lift a troll. He should have known better, really).

Anyhow, the trolls are still very much present, and they are busy roasting half of the company over a fire. The other half, like Bilbo, is tied up in sacks and busy yelling insults at the trolls. Mixed with curses, but the trolls are rather taken with their own discussion concerning the seasoning.

Bilbo wonders where the ponies are. If they are discussing the seasoning, shouldn’t they also be able to discern that pony is probably tastier than dwarf? At least Bilbo thinks his fellow companions do not look very edible; rather on the tough and tasteless side, with a lot of hair and armor on top. But then again, maybe trolls like crunchy things…  Well, Bilbo would have gone with ponies.

Still, as it grows increasingly obvious that none of the dwarves has any idea of what to do (their leader is just lying in his sack, brooding. It might look becoming on him, but in the end it's fairly useless), Bilbo figures he might as well speak up. He doesn’t want to be eaten, and using his powers on the trolls is not a good idea.

This is confirmed as his vision blurs when he gets up.

Not that the dwarves appreciate his input. Really, he has half a mind to go a bit into further detail with his cooking instructions. Even though he’s still certain that dwarf meat is not meant for consumption. "They have parasites," he blurts out, "Really, nasty business. I wouldn't risk it."

If the company was offended before, they are positively outraged now. Kili especially takes the lie to heart, shouting "you have parasites" which, well, is simultaneously a pathetic rejoinder and a testament to his youth.

“I won’t forget that! I won’t forget that!” Dwalin yells, managing to look frightening even when tied to a spit.

Bilbo does ensure that the spit leaves Dwalin face-down a moment longer – just out of spite. Then a troll catches him in the chest with a stick, and Bilbo has to fight to stay on his feet. He's wondering what desperate last measure there is to employ, when finally, in the very last moment, Gandalf appears.

The moment the trolls turn to stone and the company begins to cheer, Bilbo’s knees give out. He falls sideways onto the grass, hearing somebody call his name from far away. And then the world grows darker for a while, even though he does not pass out completely.

The spot underneath his heart aches and he feels sick. He knows he has overused his powers – lifting the trolls was a fool’s gambit – but apparently he has forgotten the pain and the fearsome state of half-awareness that comes with it. He can sense his body trying to recover; his heart still races, but at least he does not taste copper in his mouth.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks, far too close, “Bilbo, are you alright?”

It’s one of the young dwarfs, though all Bilbo can see is a dark blur hovering above him. A hand touches his face, but he can’t form a reply, can’t even make out the face or recognize the voice. His mind drifts again, when all of a sudden the dwarf begins to call for Oin.

Who… had an ear trumpet, Bilbo thinks dizzily, struggling to focus even though if it makes pain explode behind his eyes.

“… collapsed all of a sudden,” somebody says.

“And did something happen to him before?” a new voice questions and Bilbo blearily recalls his mad experiment with Myrtle. But nobody saw that, except the troll and that troll is now stone and he doesn’t know where Myrtle has gone and the ponies are …

“He’d already passed out during the fight,” somebody cuts in imperiously, “Not from an injury – the trolls didn’t even come close to touching him – but from fear, I suppose.”

Thorin. Bilbo’s temper rises at the crude dismissal of his person and in response the tree above begins to shake violently. But the minuscule attempt to use his power drives all air from his lungs and Bilbo hastily loosens the connection he’d unconsciously made, gasping for air. Dark spots dance on the edge of his vision.

“He does have some nasty bruising,” Oin announces and Bilbo realizes that his shirt is open and his chest exposed for the entire world to see. Did he pass out again?

Somebody clears their throat. “Some rest would benefit him. I believe you all would benefit from it.”

“I will not stray from my path,” Thorin announces, “And Master Baggins is free to turn around if his health requires it. He is not bound by any contract, after all.”

***

Bilbo does pass out after that. When he wakes, his shirt is buttoned again and he is back within their camp with his own bedroll underneath his head. The blankets covering him are not his own – the coarse fabric and the smell give them away.

“Bilbo?” somebody next to him asks and after a moment he makes out Ori. “Ah, are you awake this time?”

He manages a nod and the fact that no pain explodes in the back of his head is probably a good sign. His entire body still feels terribly sore.

“Are you feeling alright? Oin said to ask to make sure,” Ori says and offers him a water flask that Bilbo gratefully accepts. The cold liquid makes him feel slightly more composed.

“Quite alright, thank you,” he finally manages to respond.

“If you’re certain,” Ori agrees calmly, “Though if you have some kind of condition, Oin said to let him know. He can probably whip something up to stop it bothering you – he’s good with that kind of stuff.”

Bilbo nods. “I will. Where is everybody?”

“Ah, they found the troll hoard,” Ori answers, “Went looking for treasure.”

“And you didn’t join them?” Bilbo inquires and forces himself to sit up. His body aches in protest – he would prefer to sleep for another day at least, and ideally on a soft mattress and down pillows – but Thorin will probably urge them on the moment the rest of the group returns.

Ori smiles at him. “No, I’m not that interested in treasure. Also, the stench is terrible.”

He grimaces and Bilbo recalls the smell he noticed first. “Don’t tell me about it,” he replies, “I half think that was what made me pass out.”

“Completely understandable,” Ori says with a straight face, “Olfactory warfare has been long underestimated by historians and tacticians.”

Bilbo doesn’t stop himself from giggling, and is in a fairly good mood when Dwalin returns with a small sword in his hand. “Gandalf said you ought to have that,” he announces and presses the sword in Bilbo’s hand without paying any attention to the hobbit’s protests. “Also, if you’re up, get ready to get moving – Thorin wants to leave this place as soon as possible. Maybe even before Gandalf’s done chatting with the other fellow.”

“Other fellow?” Ori inquires and Bilbo, too, is curious.

Dwalin grimaces. “Another wizard. This one’s even more wonky.”

“Oh dear,” Ori mutters and Bilbo finds himself agreeing. With Dwalin’s help, they tidy up the last reminders of their camp. Bilbo finds his body smarting and stiff, but no dizziness assaults him. He probably did not overstrain himself too much then. But it would still be better to refrain from employing his powers in the next two days.

“By the way, good thinking, earlier,” Dwalin tells him abruptly, “Probably saved our lives.”

Bilbo feels the blood rise to his cheeks. “Well, I … it did save mine as well.”

Dwalin gives him a toothy grin. “Still. As I said. I won’t forget that.”

***

Bilbo barely has time to catch a glimpse of the other wizard when a growl makes his hair stand. Wolves, he thinks and a spike of panic races through his mind. It’s in the middle of the day and wolves avoid attacking in daylight, even during Fell Winter they only came out at twilight and that they’re out now –

A giant body leaps down the ravine. Thorin dances out of reach and abruptly Dwalin is there, burying his axe in the animal’s enormous head. “Warg Scouts,” he assesses and Bilbo’s blood freezes.

Wargs are far, far worse than wolves.

Unbidden the memory of snow turned red and mangled cadavers on the ground rises again, and he only hears Radagast announce to draw them of from a distance. Only when Fili grasps his arm and pulls him forward the trance breaks. He stumbles, looks up and Fili gives him an assessing look. “Are you alright? We need to run.”

Bilbo swallows, wonders whatever happened to the ponies – but Fili is already pulling him away. They break their way through the undergrowth. Now he can hear multiple wargs howl. Their yapping fills the air and Bilbo doesn’t understand why they don’t hear them, since to him, the twigs breaking under their feet echo like thunderclaps.

“This way!” Gandalf shouts and in the distance a warg yowls. An orc shouts joins it.

Bilbo’s heart jumps as he realizes they’ve reached the end of the forest. Hilly grasslands stretch before them and going out there must be insane – those hills will barely provide any cover. They will be seen. His throat is dry. He can’t protest. And before he knows what is happening he is out, and the sun is too bright.

“Bilbo, keep up,” Fili hisses, grip on Bilbo’s arm still firm.

The rest of the company is far ahead of them, Bilbo realizes. He curses himself, but can’t find enough air and his legs ache. The throbbing underneath his heart returns, his body screams at him to sit down and rest. He gasps for air and tries to keep up, but the distance only grows and he wants to tell Fili to leave him behind – he’s a hobbit, he can hide, he’ll just try to reach the forest – but the dwarf isn’t letting him go.

All of a sudden there’s something heavy next to them, and he hears a deep and frightening growl and then the world twists violently. He slams into the ground hard, rolls over with his head ringing and with snapping teeth next to his ear. A shout echoes from somewhere, or maybe Fili yells, but he can barely tell where the ground is and the stench is terrifying.

With a soft thud Fili’s blade is buried in the warg’s side, only an arm’s length away from Bilbo. The hobbit freezes, though the warg twists violently, forcing Fili away and Bilbo catches sight of a long, bloody scratch running down Fili’s back. He bites down a scream as Fili stumbles and falls, the warg turns to look at him and then back at Bilbo. And if it was capable of smirking it would, because Fili is struggling to grasp his sword and get back to his feet while Bilbo is frozen to the spot.

The warg attacks Fili. It’s too close and the young dwarf not yet prepared. Bilbo can see the animal’s leap conclude, its claws catching Fili in the chest –

And he throws up his arm and with whatever vestiges of power left in his chest jerks the warg from its trajectory. It slams into the ground with a confused howl, Bilbo’s head starts to throb and Fili jumps up. His power refuses to untangle, and he doesn’t know whether to withdraw or keep the beast fixed on the spot, and thankfully Fili quickly slams his sword into the warg’s skull.

Blood splatters onto the ground. But the beast stops moving, and Fili climbs to his feet, breathing heavily. The red spot on his side grows quickly and he’s pale, but his eyes are fixed on Bilbo. Who still sits on the ground, hunched over and trying to make the world stop spinning.

“Bilbo,” Fili stutters, “What did you –“

“Fili! Bilbo!” Kili yells and fires an arrow at another warg to their right, “Hurry up!”

When Bilbo lifts his head he can see another warg approaching, this one bearing an orc on its back. The creature is hideous, more hideous than Bilbo imagined them to be and yet also grittier and far more frightening. Its blade is rusty – and fear surges through him. He flings out an arm and an uncontrolled burst of power throws the warg and orc backwards, but sends him back to the ground as his vision flickers.

“Bilbo, come on,” Fili urges and Bilbo can barely hear him. The pounding of his own heart fills his ears and he can’t move his mouth. Something wraps around him and he is whisked from the ground – for a moment, all fades to black. When the world returns, he dangles upside down from Fili’s shoulder and has a terrifying view of the wargs and orcs chasing them. There are three –

And arrow soars past and slams into a warg’s eye, toppling beast and rider and there’s still two left. Bilbo reaches for his power but finds the spot sore, exhausted and unwilling to react. Another arrow flies by, but the orc dodges –

But the arrow is light enough for Bilbo’s powers to hold, turn around in midair and slam into the orc’s back. The surprised screech cuts off abruptly as the orc falls sideways from its steed, the warg dancing away in confusion. He sees the last of the three chasing them slow down, fear and bewilderment pasted on his face.

Did he see the arrow turn in midair, Bilbo wonders warily, then Fili turns a corner and suddenly the entire company is there. Fili sinks into the grass and Bilbo tumbles off his shoulder. There are hands everywhere and somebody sits him upright, inquires whether he is alright –

Look at Fili, he wants to tell them but only gasps for air. The young dwarf is injured, but already somebody is calling for Oin while somebody else shouts Fili’s name and Bilbo hopes it’s not bad. His pulse begins to slow, though it doesn’t make sense – they can’t be safe, they’re still out in the open and-

“We’re surrounded!” Dwalin roars abruptly.

“Where’s Gandalf?” Gloin shouts, while Thorin orders them to prepare to fight.  “You stay here,” Ori tells Bilbo and presses the small sword into Bilbo’s hand. Then draws a slingshot and stands. Bilbo wants to tell him to stay –

It’s too dangerous, there are too many wargs and too many orcs and not even Thorin and Dwalin will be able to take on all of them. If only his powers were more stable, he thinks, clutching at his aching chest. If only he was stronger –

A cold spike of fear races through him as he realizes that even if he gives it everything, it is unlikely to save them.

If only the trolls hadn’t happened, if only he hadn’t exhausted his power then. Next to him Fili – with a makeshift bandage wrapped around his chest on top of his clothes, fumbles for his swords.

“Don’t,” Bilbo gasps, “Don’t, you can’t…”

Fili leans over and coughs wetly. “I have to.”

“You – “A growl catches their attention and there is an orc crouched on the boulder above them. Fili reaches for a knife to throw, but Bilbo is faster – he grasps the orc with his powers and slams it against the rock. Its panicked scream cuts off abruptly as its head is smashed – and the flying mess of blood and brains splats all over Bilbo and Kili.

And Bilbo finds Fili staring at him with fear in his eyes. His heart sinks.

Before he can find words, a horn echoes over the hilly plain and they turn to look. Riders advance, cutting down orcs and wargs in their path with ease. The spot underneath Bilbo’s heart aches and his entire body trembles. He doesn’t taste copper yet –

But they are many and tall and their arrows cut through flesh and armor from afar and Bilbo doesn’t know if he can reach so far. His body is too weary to find out; he doesn’t think his legs would carry him if he attempted to stand.

“Elves,” somebody mutters and Bilbo glances up to see Gloin hovering nearby. Somebody shouts in relief, and abruptly Gandalf emerges from a corner between rocks. They are safe, then, Bilbo thinks.

Safe at the very last moment.

His vision blurs, again, but this time he doesn’t fight it. Distantly he sees Gandalf walk toward the elves. Some riders chase the remaining orc riders, but most draw together into an orderly formation. The tall being at the head seems to be the one Gandalf addresses – and Balin joins him, followed by Thorin, whose sword remains unsheathed.

Thorin doesn’t like elves, Bilbo recalls. Though his own mother had always liked elves. His father had been wary, but he’d probably never actually met elves. He’d known their history, though, and had always feared for Bilbo.

“Fili needs treatment!” Kili shouts and jerks Bilbo from his drifting thoughts. Fili leans against the boulder next to Bilbo and sweat beads his forehead. The red on his coat has spread, and even though he tries to shrug of Kili’s hands, he makes no attempt to climb to his own feet.

“Our burglar, too,” Kili adds when Oin hurries over.

Whatever Thorin makes of it is lost, but eventually one of the elves slides of his horse and approaches. “Peace,” he says when Gloin bristles, “I have some skill at healing.”

Blond hair falls elegantly past a smooth, ageless face and Bilbo wonders what legends this one was part of. There is an air of magic around him that Bilbo can sense, and when that hand extends toward him he makes no attempt to evade it.

“This one is deeply exhausted,” the elf announces evenly and turns to Fili. Skilled, quick hands undo the makeshift bandage and unwrap layers of cloth. With everybody hovering over Fili, Bilbo only catches sight of the deep cut in his side for a short moment – before a clean white cloth is pressed on top of it.

“It is not poisoned,” the elf announces and Kili exhales loudly, “And his life is not in danger. But for a quicker healing, I would recommend you to stay in Rivendell.”

Kili nods enthusiastically, while Bilbo just sees Gloin frowning in his ever shrinking field of vision. Gandalf says something, but his voice is too far away and Bilbo thinks that he would like to see Rivendell. His mother had loved it – had talked of taking him there, though that daydream had never been realized. But according to her words it is a place of peace and quiet and tranquility.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramblings and stuff and reblogs of fanart --> [paranoidfridge](http://www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/).


	4. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo accidentally starts a food-fight in Rivendell, has an unpleasant conversation with Thorin, but a lovely conversation with Fili and Kili.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). An [amazing banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) has been made by the lovely [penumbriafics](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/) and more art shall follow soon! 
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Now, **warnings** : Violence mentioned in this chapter.

Bilbo wakes up in an unfamiliar room. The bed is far too large for him, but the pillows are undeniably comfortable. His body feels heavy; as if he has gone on a long hike the day prior –

But it wasn’t a hike, he recalls. It was something far more dangerous and potentially deadly. He closes his eyes for a moment, and maybe it is due to the place, but the desperate fear has faded from his mind. His body, too, feels healed. Whatever strain he put on it by overusing his power apparently caused no lasting damage.

Fili saw, he recalls abruptly. The young dwarf not only saw an arrow turn in midair, but saw Bilbo throw an orc against rock, smashing its head. Saw and realized it was Bilbo’s doing. Something cold travels down his spine and Bilbo swallows.

Perhaps, he tells himself, this will mark a good opportunity to part ways with the company. There was a reason he didn’t sign the contract. And after the danger they already encountered, the chances of death or injury  are now likely to rise. He knows the paths across the Misty Mountains are not safe.

And still his heart sinks.

“Bilbo?” somebody calls and he looks up to see Ori standing in the doorway, “Good to see you’re up. How are you feeling?”

The dwarf’s expression carries only honest concern – so perhaps they don’t hate him yet? Bilbo pushes himself up in bed. “Quite well, actually.”

Ori beams at him. “That’s good to hear. You’ve been asleep for an entire day, and the elves were quite baffled as to what exhausted you like this. According to them some running should not harm a hobbit so much – I’d hazard to say they were almost angry at us.”

Thorin will have loved that, Bilbo thinks. “I’m sorry, I hope that wasn’t –“

“No, no,” Ori waves his concerns away, “Gandalf got most of the scolding. I think it was more of a surprise to us just how fond they are of hobbits. Even Gandalf seemed surprised.”

That might have been his mother’s fault. If her tales carried a grain of truth then that adoration she had for the elves in Rivendell was returned. Bilbo feels the blood rise in his cheeks.

“They’ll be glad to see you up,” Ori resumes, “If you feel like it, we’re about to have dinner in an hour or so. If not I’m sure they’ll bring you something up.”

Since he is no longer feeling shaky, Bilbo shakes his head. “I think I’ll join you.”

***

He realizes he is still a bit shaky when he leaves his room, but the kind smiles directed his way help him feel better. The company cheers when he turns up – though Thorin notably turns away. While Bilbo initially feels slighted, he soon realizes that Thorin’s dark mood may not even be a response to him.

While Thorin acts the part of the thundercloud, Bilbo promptly is reminded of the astonishing lack of table manners. With the table before them decked high with mostly green food, the dwarves throw propriety into the wind and blithely ignore the elves present.

Bilbo feels rather embarrassed.

Lord Elrond certainly has not deserved this. Nor does the poor harpist deserve the identity crisis Kili has forced upon him with that poor call of judgment. He hears Ori and Dwalin complain about the food, and misses whatever Lord Elrond has to say about Gandalf’s sword –

And that’s enough. They’ve been given shelter, food, reprieve – can those ungrateful dwarves not accept their blessings with grace?

With a huff Bilbo stretches his mind across the table and a plate of salad smacks Kili in the face.

For a moment, silence descends. And Bilbo suddenly realizes that this was a bad idea. A Very Bad Idea.

For Kili is looking at Nori. In the next moment, a tomato smacks Bofur in the head. Bilbo wants to shout “I didn’t do it,” but then the dwarves don’t know he was responsible for the salad, and well, there is a food fight happening that keeps everybody just too busy. Fili eyes him contemplatively until Bifur hits him with a potato.

Bilbo slumps in his seat.  Next to him, Balin sighs. “Don’t mind them, laddie,” he tells Bilbo, “They’ll just have to get it out.”

Bilbo nods and says nothing.

Though he hopes that Lord Elrond never finds out he started this.

***

Even though Bilbo sleeps the sleep of the dead due to exhaustion his first night in Rivendell, the second night does not pass quite so easily. Before midnight arrives, he jerks awake, sweat making his nightshirt cling uncomfortably to his skin, gasping for air.

His mind is spinning with images. Blood on the grass, the trolls. An arrow covered in blood and flesh. Fear on the face of an Orc.

Bilbo faces himself to take a deep breath. "It's alright," he whispers to himself, "It's fine. Just fine..."

The spot under his heart is throbbing again, but at least it doesn’t hurt any longer. Behind his eyelids the memories the memories of the chase still flitter and that sense of desperation lingers far too closely.

He can still taste that fear – realizing his ability won’t be enough. Realizing that even though his power is enough to make orcs fear him, it would not have saved their lives.

He swallows down the unease and instead, he pushes himself out of bed and slips back into his clothes. It's not that late, so maybe a walk and some air will calm his heart enough to sleep.

He lets his feet carry him outside. The air is pleasantly cool, the sky is clear. Tomorrow will be a warm, sunny day and Bilbo looks forward to spending it in one of Rivendell's gardens. Then voices catch his attention, and as he directs his gaze down, he finds Gandalf and Elrond wandering, deep in conversation.

" ... A sickness runs deep in that line," Elrond says, and Bilbo blinks.

Thorin? Cursed?

Back when his powers first manifested a few ill-spirited voices had called it a curse, too. They’d fallen silent, soon, and even after Fell Winter had never reemerged. But somewhere deep in Bilbo’s heart all those hurtful words have stayed with him.

Gandalf effortlessly changes the topic and Bilbo belatedly realizes that Thorin stands behind him. He must have heard those words, then, and even though his expression reveals nothing, Bilbo thinks his eyes tell another story.

“A curse?” he asks, sotto voce.

Thorin frowns. “You needn’t worry about that, Master Baggins. It doesn’t affect you.”

That fragile sense of understanding Bilbo felt evaporates. “Can you promise that?” he asks snidely, “Usually curses tend to have an effect on the person’s surroundings and I would like to know what else to expect from this.”

“Worry about your task and the dragon, burglar,” Thorin returns moodily.

Bilbo remembers his nightmare and feels his lips twitch in ill humor. “I haven’t signed that contract, in case it slipped your mind.”

“Then don’t and leave us,” Thorin interrupts, “Go back to your books and stop asking about things you won’t understand.”

A part of Bilbo would like to do just that, but Thorin’s dismissal makes his blood pressure spike. He rounds on the dwarf.  “Are you always this arrogant?” Bilbo questions, “Presuming others will not understand while simultaneously refusing to explain yourself?”

Thorin sputters. Obviously, a calm part of Bilbo’s mind thinks, he isn’t used to be challenged like this. “I … Just who do you think you are?”

The thundercloud on Thorin’s face darkens and Bilbo realizes belatedly that provoking him was certainly not his best idea. The King towers a good head above him and while he can feel the familiar hum of his power, it doesn’t make him anymore at ease.

He shakes his head with a sigh. “Forget it,” he tells Thorin, “I was merely curious. But perhaps it’s too much to ask for information about the thing one is expected to risk his own life for.”

With a huff he turns on his heel, determined to return to his room and sleep off the odd mood. He doesn’t even make it three steps before a large hand closes around his upper arm and jerks him back.

“You are very rude, you know that?” Thorin hisses, “If you want information, you might perhaps wait to receive an answer before stalking off.”

The grip is too tight and forces Bilbo to stand at an awkward angle, but he glares at Thorin, refusing to be intimidated. “You made it quite clear you were not willing to divulge any information on the subject.”

“You seem more interested in rumors!” Thorin shouts and his grip tightens.

Bilbo flinches in pain and the King releases him as if burned. For a moment they stare at each other in silence – Thorin, Bilbo thinks, almost looks regretful. But his shoulder smarts and rather than face up to the provocations he himself threw at Thorin, Bilbo deems the conversation past salvaging.

So with a small sigh, he takes a step backward, massaging his smarting arm. “Good night.”

This, he thinks as he hurries down the stairs and away from a King that is probably just as mad as the rumors claim, concludes his adventure.

***

He asks Balin for a moment after breakfast. The old dwarf follows along with a hum, seemingly in a good mood. Their stores are being refilled and Fili’s injury is mostly healed. The weather looks good, too.

“I’m afraid I will not sign onto your mission after all,” Bilbo tells him after a moment.

Balin’s face falls. “Why? I thought – “

Bilbo evades his eyes and Balin continues. “I’m terribly sorry if we made you feel uncomfortable, Master Baggins. If you wish, I can certainly have a word with everyone, you needn’t-“

“It’s not that,” Bilbo interrupts quickly, “Everyone’s been great.” Except Thorin, he adds to himself, but he will not drag Balin into that mess.

“The danger?” Balin inquires quietly, “If so, I understand, laddie. The wilderlands can be hostile though what you experienced is unusual, even for that place.”

Bilbo purses his lips. “Something like that, yes,” he agrees even though that is not quite the truth, “When we were running I realized that, when it comes down to it, I’m not cut out for adventures. I might make a decent burglar – but one that will be of little use if I get everybody killed on the way there.”

Balin frowns. “You know, Fili was saying you did save his life,” he returns, “He was vague on the details, but … Well, if you do not want to come further, I will not try to persuade you. We will miss you, laddie, but you know best what’s good for you.”

And with a friendly pat on Bilbo’s shoulder and a sad smile the white-haired dwarf turns to leave. Bilbo remains where he stands a little longer, watching the white curtains billow in the cool spring breeze.

He feels like a coward.

It is a rational decision, he tells himself. After all, there is a frighteningly high likelihood he will die or get maimed on that adventure. And taking on a dragon is insanity. Hobbits are neither insane nor warriors, so Bilbo is right to turn back. Hobbiton will forgive him his short excursion, and now he has seen Rivendell, after all.

What is there on the other side of the Misty Mountains that is worth seeing, anyway?

He spends the afternoon wandering through Rivendell’s gardens lost in thought. The day is clear and cloudless, the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains tower above the valley. Birdsong fills the air that is now slowly growing warmer. The first wave of spring blossoms has passed – soon the temperatures will rise and summer is just around the corner.

If he turns back now he may just arrive in time for the strawberry season, Bilbo thinks. And a part of his heart yearns for the rolling hills and little lakes of his home.

Another part eyes the mountain tops and listens to the wind rustling the leaves and wonders what else the world out there has to offer. Wonders how far that blue sky extends – and what he may find at the end of the road.

But it’s idle contemplations. His decision is made, after all.

“Bilbo!” Fili shouts and Bilbo turns to see him approach with his brother. His color has returned and the ease with which he carries himself belies the deep cut he sustained.

“Here you are,” the young dwarf comments and drops down on a bench.

“Balin said you were leaving?” Kili asks promptly and earns himself an elbow to the ribs, courtesy of his brother.

Bilbo nods.

“But, why?” Kili asks, taken aback, “I thought you liked us? If this is about uncle, don’t mind him – he always frowns.”

Bilbo blinks. “Your uncle?”

Fili clears his throat. “Thorin is our uncle. Our mother’s older brother, to be exact.”

There was nothing – nothing in Thorin’s behavior that would have given that relationship away, Bilbo thinks. But neither did those two young dwarves betray that. “I … didn’t know.”

“Yes, we usually don’t announce it and most dwarves know, anyway,” Kili says with a shrug, “But don’t let him keep you from coming along. He’s going to thaw at some point.”

Not after their encounter last night, Bilbo thinks. “It’s not that,” he says, “Grouchy as your uncle is, it was the realization that I’m just not cut out for these sorts of things.”

Kili’s face falls, though Fili tells his head. “Really?” he inquires, “I am fairly certain I would be dead if not for you.”

Kili shifts uneasily and something cold runs down Bilbo’s spine. He swallows back the unease. “That was pure chance.”

Fili raises an eyebrow. “I am not an expert, but I don’t think so. Now, Bilbo –“ and here he catches Bilbo’s hand between his, “I saw how you reacted when you realized I had seen and I haven’t told anyone –“

Bilbo nods at Kili who just smiles.

“And I’m not going to tell anyone anything if you don’t want me to, but if your ability is what I think it is than I am really, really sad to see you leave.” Fili tightens his grip and Bilbo’s throat suddenly closes up.

“I… It is…” he has never talked about his powers, he realizes. Not since those days when he couldn’t control them.

“You can move objects with your mind,” Fili suggests, “Is that it?”

“I guess,” Bilbo replies hesitantly, “It’s never … there was never anything like it in the Shire so nobody knew what to call it.”

Fili’s lips twitch. “Let me guess, it wasn’t well tolerated either?”

Bilbo nods before he can stop himself. Baring his soul like this feels reckless and he is afraid it will come back to haunt him – and yet he cannot find any trace of dishonesty in Fili’s face.

“Are … are things like that more common among dwarves?” Bilbo asks.

Fili shakes his head. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen a talent like this and while I am no scholar, as far as I know the records haven’t recorded anything similar. So no, that is new. But being called cursed for having been born with something you cannot help – our family is familiar with that.”

Bilbo recalls Elrond’s word from the night before and his disastrous conversation with Thorin. He is not going to ask Fili the same intrusive questions.

“Oh,” he comments.

Fili snorts. “Now, don’t look so glum. All I’m saying is I’m not going to act like you’re a three-headed warg just because you have some odd talent.”

“Which seems to be a very useful talent,” Kili adds with a grin, “If my dear brother wasn’t lying.”

Bilbo watches them hesitantly. Some part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop – for them to turn away in fear and disgust. Instead, they watch him with wide, expectant eyes and a good amount of cheer on top of it.

It is utterly unfamiliar.

“Seeing as my brother is reluctant to believe my word,” Fili says when Bilbo fails to speak, “And if it’s not … hurting you or anything – could you give him a demonstration?”

His jaw drops a little and Fili is quick to reassure him “Only if it’s not an imposition, of course.”

“But I’m curious,” Kili chimes in, “Can you do something like turn that statue around? Just with your mind?”

Don’t do it, the constantly worried part of Bilbo’s mind scolds. But for some reason he finds himself studying their surroundings, trying to figure out whether anybody else is watching –

“We are alone,” Fili assures him with a small smile.

Bilbo’s lips twitch in response. And the statue turns around.

“Wow!” Kili exclaims and jumps up, “That was amazing!” And even Fili who has seen Bilbo’s power in action before looks impressed. There is no disapproval on their faces, neither fear. All Bilbo can see is honest wonder and it makes something in his chest warm. And ache.

This easy acceptance, now, when he has already decided they will split paths? When all that lies before him is the return to his home and Hobbiton’s wariness of anything unusual.

“Is it exhausting? Is there a limit to what you can do? What if the object is far away? Or what if it’s very heavy? Can you get me that branch over there?” Kili asks enthusiastically.

Bilbo feels laughter bubble up in his chest. With a wave he makes the branch rise into the air leisurely float toward them. “There is a limit to what I can move, yes,” he tells them.

“You did something with the trolls,” Fili exclaims, “That was why you passed out!”

While it is a memory Bilbo would rather avoid, he nods. Kili’s eyes widen. “You can lift a troll? But they were huge!”

“Which is why I passed out,” Bilbo returns with a grimace, “Really, I think the trolls were too much.”

Unlike this branch. He barely even feels the energy needed to move it – the painful throb emanating from the spot underneath his heart is nothing but a faint memory.

“Still, that is amazing,” Fili comments.

“And maybe you could train,” Kili suggests, “Like if you want to get stronger or better – you always have to train a lot.”

“I’m not sure if it works like that,” Bilbo replies.

Kili shrugs. “You can try. If you come along, you can train with us. We could also teach you how to use that sword – just so you have something to stick them with if anything gets too close.”

It sounds so easy in Kili’s words. Just tag along and use his powers a bit here and there – and Bilbo would have to lie if he wanted to claim he won’t miss his companions. With the exception of Thorin and the small grudge he still holds against Gandalf he likes everybody in the company.

“It’s your decision,” Fili adds, “But I would feel a lot of better if you stayed with us, Bilbo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramblings and stuff and reblogs of fanart --> [paranoidfridge](http://www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/).


	5. An unexpected meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remains in Rivendell. Where he overhears an interesting conversation and meets Galadriel. And comes to a decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

In the end, rationality wins out. Bilbo watches the company depart from one of Rivendell’s many balconies. They don’t know he is here – he said his goodbyes the night before – and his heart is heavy.

There will be only more danger on the path ahead, he tells himself. And even if they make it that far, a dragon lies at the road’s end and such a road is not made for a hobbit. But he will miss them. And he hopes they will succeed.

“I wonder what Gandalf’s scheme behind this is,” a voice next to him says.

Bilbo jumps. “Lord Elrond.”

“Peace, Master Hobbit. I’m not going to stop your friends from leaving, unannounced as their departure is,” Elrond comments and returns his gaze to the company below. The sky overhead is just beginning to brighten and most of Rivendell still sleeps.

“Gandalf isn’t even among them,” Bilbo says, failing to find the wizard’s tall silhouette.

Elrond tilts his head. “And yet he instructed them to leave before dawn.”

Bilbo frowns and turns to his companion. “What do you mean?” he asks because it is too early for subterfuge, “Does Gandalf have any other plans then helping Thorin retake the mountain?”

“I thought you wanted to no longer be part of that adventure?” Elrond questions, “But Erebor is more than just a mountain. If Oakenshield should retake it, the situation in Middle Earth will irrevocably change.”

“You mentioned that might not be wise,” Bilbo recalls, “Why?”

Elrond sighs. “The future is not certain, Master Hobbit. But my gift has shown me much grief and loss should Oakenshield continue on his quest. And then there is the very simple thought that stirring a dragon may not be the wisest course of action.”

Unease rises in Bilbo’s throat. Elrond’s words recall the tales and legends he listened to sitting on his father’s knee. Those heroes had always been distant, unreachable. But now that the company is fading from view he wonders if those heroes were not also beings that had no table manners, liked raunchy jokes or had a bad sense of direction.

Initially Bilbo intended to return to bed, but he finds himself too unsettled. Instead his feet carry him to Rivendell’s library. He tells himself to have a look at the maps – he needs to start planning his road home. He cannot expect to rely on the elves’ hospitality any longer. But he wanders past the maps instead, gazing over the lore and myths. There is a title on “gifts” – but it discusses foresight and the dwarvish ability to sense stone. The ability to converse with birds and beasts or to shift forms. But nothing on the ability to move objects with the mind.

Even among the myths and legends Bilbo’s gift is unique.

Or maybe, he thinks, it is a curse after all. The books speak little of magic. The Maiar have been gifted with it, and the witchking of Angmar turned it into a terrible weapon. Even now the notion of magic is mentioned with trepidation rather than adoration, its name tainted forever by the association with dark and terrible rulers.

Maybe Bilbo’s power is a dark one.

But he’s a hobbit, he tells himself and shuts the book louder than he intended. The librarian glares at him and Bilbo decides the library is too stuffy – he can always come back later for the maps – and wanders towards the gardens instead.

His treacherous feet carry him to the same bench he shared with Fili and Kili. It’s not even been a day since the company left and he already misses them. Certainly, they were boisterous, loud, annoying and ill-mannered –

But at some point they did become friends. Better friends than the relatives and shallow acquaintances awaiting Bilbo in the Shire. The bird’s cheerful twittering suddenly seems bleak. And the peace and solitude of Rivendell’s gardens feels lonely.

Try as he might, he does not quite manage to dispel his melancholy mood. Noon comes and passes and Bilbo finds the luncheon fare tastes dry in his mouth. Finds himself hesitant to go back to the library and look at the maps, because in the deep of his heart he realizes that he does not want to go home.

Gandalf finds him looking east from one of the balconies. He settles next to Bilbo, lights up his pipe and radiates silent disapproval.

Bilbo huffs. “I know you wanted me to go with them. But honestly, Gandalf, that quest of theirs is likely to get me killed before we even reach their mountain.”

Gandalf merrily blows a smoke ring and does not respond. Bilbo feels his temper rise.

“And if orcs and wargs do not do it, then the dragon will. I’m a hobbit, Gandalf, a hobbit! We’re not made for adventures. Look at what happened with the trolls!”

“I think you handled that just fine,” Gandalf says airily.

“Just fine-“ Bilbo sputters, “Just fine? We almost got eaten and you call that fine?”

The wizard coughs. “Well, you got out of it alright.”

Bilbo can only shake his head in exasperation. If Gandalf considers their encounter with the trolls business as usual, their understandings of what constitutes safe differ far more greatly than he anticipated. He can only hope the dwarves are aware of what Gandalf signed them up for.

“No, Gandalf, we almost didn’t,” he says. Even though his power now is a steady hum again, he recalls the ache in his chest and the bone-deep feeling of exhaustion far better than he wants to. “This kind of adventure is not my thing. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but noble as the dwarves’ quest may be, it is too dangerous for a hobbit.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows draw together. “Obviously, I cannot force you to go. But I’m afraid of what will happen to them now.”

Though their conversation turns to more pleasant subjects soon after, Bilbo cannot forget those words. They echo in his head and now when he glances at the towering mountains he wonders where the dwarves are. Have they reached the pass yet? Will they be safe?

The uneasiness does not abate and an uncommon sort of tension arises in Rivendell. Bilbo hears whispers of new arrivals and a secret meeting, though he does not see any obvious visitors. Gandalf has disappeared, too, as has Elrond and everybody else seems busy.

Dinner is a lonely affair and he retreats to his room soon after.

And finds he cannot sleep.

After tossing and turning for hours he relents and gets up. Soft as the beds here are, he muses as he idly lets his feet carry him outside, he is sleeping remarkably badly. The cool night air is a welcome caress, blowing away his gloomy thoughts for a moment. Overhead the moon casts a bright, eerie light over the valley.

Rivendell is truly otherworldly beautiful, he thinks. Particularly so tonight.

His fatigue seems to have all but vanished, so Bilbo decides to walk a little. He passes familiar statues, crosses one of the small bridges, watches the thundering waterfall for a moment. Climbs a staircase, marvels at the blue appearance of the trees under the moonlight.

Then he catches voices. They are faint – just carried over by the wind – and when he glances up, he notices the shine of light from the cliff above.

“… trolls have come down from the mountains!” Gandalf thunders, “Orcs attacked us in bright daylight!”

Bilbo freezes. Apparently the encounter left Gandalf more unsettled than he initially thought. Or the wizard let him know.

Whatever the reply is, he does not hear it. But he hears another word echoing down – one that sends a cold shudder down his spine.

“A necromancer.”

The Shire may not be close to the affairs of grand people. Most of their tales revolve around harvest, feasts and family traditions. But some tales are darker. And both the Old Forest and the Barrow-Downs are places with their own bleak history.

And these things hobbits do remember.

Tales of the dead walking are not strange to Bilbo. He knows the what malice slumbers under the earth. Knows that a necromancer with the power to summon those to him is not a fantasy at all. But a very old and very frightening part of history.

“Your knowledge does you honor, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” a female voice abruptly echoes in his head and he flinches, “And your fears are wise. Come morning I shall answer your questions.”

His body is frozen to the spot. Every hair stands straight and yet his heart hammers with surprise not fear. Something in that unfamiliar voice is soothing. Something that makes him trust it, no matter how irrational a decision it is.

“Tonight, sleep,” the voice tells him, “This place is safe.”

***

When Bilbo wakes up his excursion feels like a dream. A voice speaking softly in his head must be a figment of his imagination – too absurd to be real. And yet his chest tightens with discomfort when he thinks of the words he overheard.

But a meal may help settle him, so Bilbo leaves his room and heads straight for the kitchens.

As he descends the staircase he spies an unfamiliar lady talking to Elrond. She is tall, and exudes a strange air of both coiled power and tremendous grace. He hesitates, but Elrond has already noticed his presence.

“Master Baggins,” he calls to him and beckons him to come closer. “Master Baggins arrived together with the company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he tells her while Bilbo makes his way downstairs. Up close the two are even taller and he would be lying if he claimed not to feel out of place.

“I believe Gandalf has mentioned you,” the lady tells him with a small smile.

And Bilbo jumps because the voice he heard in his head last night – the voice he has convinced himself was a dream – apparently did exist. Which means all that talk of dark power occurred as well.

“Then I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he mumbles, recalling his manners at the very last second.

Both elves beam at him. “The Lady Galadriel,” Elrond introduces while she retains her smile. Bilbo’s stomach drops.

Galadriel. Of Lothlorien if his knowledge of current events is anything to go by. Who has seen more than one age pass, seen the world shift and change and is generally considered far older, wiser and more powerful than all others. She’d also always been a figure from the legends Bilbo adored as a young boy.

He’d just never expected to meet her.

“A pleasure,” he manages and Shire manners truly feel inadequate when it comes to meeting people from myth and tales.

“Likewise,” she replies and somehow her smile does not truly make her appear any more earthly. Instead Bilbo can practically feel her power roll off her.

“I wanted to take a look at the gardens. It has been some time since I saw them,” she continues, “Would you accompany me?”

Elrond blinks. And Bilbo realizes it’s not a request.  Which means, “Of course, my Lady,” is the only applicable answer.

Sweat beads on his back as he walks toward the gardens next to her. She has to know he overheard the conversation last night – maybe she will erase his memory. Not that Bilbo would mind; he’d rather not get involved into history-changing events. He doesn’t think that she will do anything worse, but he is also utterly uncertain as to just what kind of power she wields. Perhaps she could turn him into stone, too.

He swallows nervously. Around them the greenery has thickened and they are probably alone.

“Oh, don’t be so nervous, Master Hobbit,” she laughs abruptly, “I was merely curious.”

Bilbo stops, realizing they are not far from the place where he showed Kili and Fili his power. He hopes they’re safe, wherever they are now.

“Curious?” he echoes.

“There is something about you,” she says and leans forward, “Gandalf claimed to know you from a young age. But I don’t think it was merely this acquaintance that made Mithrandir chose you.”

Can she sense his power? Is it perhaps evil after all?

Her expression grows more solemn. “So there is indeed something. I will not ask you, if you will not tell me,” she straightens and casts a contemplative glance toward the mountains, “But strange abilities do not occur without reason.”

Bilbo’s heart hitches.

It’s not as if he hadn’t wondered this himself. Why give him this power? Why an inconsequential hobbit from the Shire?

“There is a touch of fate about you, little hobbit,” she tells him.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “What am I supposed to do?”

She laughs her silvery laugh. “Oh, you will need to find this out yourself. But,” and she sobers once again, “I see your eyes stray to the mountains. Did you make friends with the company?”

There is no point to denying those bonds, so Bilbo nods.

“And you worry for them,” she concludes, “Not only for the dangers the road may hold, but also for what you overheard.”

Bilbo stiffens. “I did not mean to –“

“I know. And it is strange that you walked straight through the spell that keeps that place out of reach for the uninvited. I can only think you were meant to hear us.” She says it as if it was a good thing.

Bilbo would rather not know of necromancers. “I barely heard a thing,” he replies, “And I did not understand much.”

“Maybe I can help,” Galadriel offers and takes a seat on one of the benches, bringing her down to Bilbo’s height, “Tell me what you wonder.”

Bilbo swallows. Wonders if asking now will not only get him deeper embroiled into affair too big for a lone hobbit. “I heard Gandalf speak about the trolls we faced and the orcs that attacked us.”

“Ill-fated encounters, indeed,” she nods.

Bilbo purses his lips and his curiosity wins out. “Initially I had the impression those were normal dangers. But Gandalf sounded upset.”

She smiles again. “Mithrandir does have a somewhat unusual temperament. I’m sure he meant not to worry you, and while it is true, orcs do beset travelers and trolls do pose some danger, trolls have long since kept to the mountains in the north. It is worth finding out if they came south by mere chance.”

“And the orcs?” Bilbo questions.

Galadriel’s expression grows serious. “They were hunting you.”

Bilbo swallows drily.

“We do not know what is behind it – Thorin Oakenshield has more than one enemy,” she adds after a moment.

“Will they continue to hunt them?” Bilbo asks uneasily.

“Probably,” Galadriel replies without missing a beat. “The path that lies before your friends is dangerous indeed.”

Unbidden Bilbo recalls Gandalf’s words from the day before. “Gandalf said I should go with them…”

“Mithrandir usually has his reasons for saying what he does,” Galadriel replies, “But he does not know everything and he is not always right, either.”

Bilbo frowns at the ground. Bright yellow flowers line the marble stone. “But I can’t help them. I’m just a hobbit.”

She smiles. “Even the smallest of us can change fate.”

“Would you advise me to go with them?” Bilbo asks.

Her eyes find his and he’s spellbound by the ageless wisdom mirrored there. “I believe Thorin Oakenshield will need you before the end. Yes, Bilbo Baggins, I would have you follow your friends. You will be able to help more than you think.”

It’s telling that he feels neither shock nor surprise at her announcement. Instead, it is like puzzle pieces falling into place. Realizing something he has known for long in the deep of his heart.

“If,” he begins hesitantly and a cool breeze tickles his cheeks, “If I go after them… there was another thing I heard.”

“The necromancer,” she says and a shudder runs through the ground.

He can feel her recalling her power. “It may be rumor,” she offers, “Perhaps truly nothing but idle talk. But something has stirred the waters of the world.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“I feel a change in the air. I wonder if just beyond our sight something moves,” she presses her lips together. “I wonder if Thorin Oakenshield is not a pawn on a larger board, and for that I would have you follow him and protect him. There is a destiny he has to fulfill and there is a purpose to you. I do not know what the Valar have ordained for the two of you, but I believe your fate is not to turn around here.”

Drawn into the politics of tall people, Bilbo recalls his father’s fears. It turns out those fears did not require having special power at all.

Galadriel smiles at him. “Mithrandir intends to make inquiries about the necromancer. I will leave Oakenshield to you.”

Responsibility settles on Bilbo’s shoulders like a heavy cloak. It is ironic that he refused to sign the dwarves’ contract but now promises to see to their survival.

“I will do my best,” he vows solemnly.

Galadriel’s face brightens. “And I am certain you will perform admirably. Now I will not keep you any longer from your meal.”

  _tbc_


	6. Under the Misty Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo leaves Rivendell. After some (mis-)adventures in the Misty Mountains, he finds the company again - and promptly needs to help them flee from their goblin captors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: canon-typical violence for this part.

Bilbo sets out from Rivendell when the sun has just passed its zenith. The sky remains cloudless and soon sweat covers his back and makes the hair stick to his forehead. Before him the path remains clear, ascending steadily toward the mountains. Rabbits and birds cross it at times, eyeing the lone traveler curiously.

The elves provided him generously with both food and clothes, though he bemoans the weight. And even though the world before him beckons, he cannot quite swallow the kernel of unease still rolling in his stomach. Who is he to embroil himself into the affairs of the world? Who is he to take responsibility for the crownless King of dwarves? A King who has terrible manners and is arrogant to boot.

What was he thinking?

Madness, propriety is screaming at him, madness. You will die. But when he stops and turns to gaze behind – sees the valley, and beyond where the hilly plains stretch until the Weather Hills. His horizon has already expanded.

He cannot go back at this point.

So he turns around, takes another step forward and begins to compose a walking song under his breath.

The hours pass in silence. As he ascends to the higher reaches the air begins to cool. When the shadows lengthen he looks for a protected corner for shelter. Hobbits are easily overlooked and his new elvish cloak will provide additional protection. But nights on the mountains are cold and he misses the campfire and his rambunctious companions.

Well, he thinks as he unwraps another piece of lembas. If he makes good time he should catch up with them the day after tomorrow.

***

The next day takes him above the treeline. Behind him the familiar world fades further and further away. Glaciers shine in blue and white, almost blinding, and patches of snow crunch under his feet. But overhead the sun shines and warms even cold stone.

He spies tracks – a small sign here, a dropped chicken bone there. Bilbo smiles to himself. He must be on the right path, then, perhaps not far from the company.

With a renewed sense of purpose he strides on. Though as the path narrows and grows rockier he begins to wonder about what he will say once he catches up with his comrades. While only few of the dwarves will be happy to see him, he doubts most of them will mind him rejoining. Especially if this time around he does sign the contract.

But Thorin Oakenshield, he thinks, may protest. They did not part in friendship after all--and considering Thorin’s strained relation with Gandalf in particular and elves in general-- mentioning he was requested by those parties to watch out for him does not appear to be a good idea. Even if no rational being on Middle Earth ought to doubt a task given by the Lady Galadriel, Thorin has not impressed Bilbo as the most cool-headed and logical person.

Then again, he could just persuade Thorin by using his powers.

A part of him still rebels at the idea of making his talent public, but if he is to help the dwarves they are bound to find out sooner or later. And telling the company is not like shouting it out to the entirety of Eriador – they may just keep his secret.

Bilbo stops as the ground abruptly drops away. He can see the path continuing on the other side, but before his feet an abyss gapes. The ground is dizzyingly far away, littered with rocks. An avalanche must have washed out the pass.

But the dwarves have passed through here - only moments ago he’d come across another trace. He frowns – turning back and taking the lower pass now will set him back by several days. Furthermore, he does not know how the dwarves intend to continue on the other side of the Misty Mountains – he may just lose them entirely.

The gap is too wide to jump. Even an elf could not cross it. But a hobbit that can lift objects with his mind?

Bilbo takes a step back and looks around until he finds a decently sized boulder. It’s about the size of his torso and flat on top – enough for him sit stably and comfortably on. Even before he reaches out with his power, he tenses. This is something he hasn’t done since he was a small child. And even then it had been awkward, uncomfortable and ended up with him falling off more times than he managed to stay on.

Back then, the ground had been Hobbiton’s soft grass. Not the fatal abyss of a mountain pass.

He takes a deep breath and concentrates. The trick, he tells himself, is to keep the rock steady and not think about himself. What he moves is the rock – his own body merely sits atop of it, merely an additional weight.

With a loud crack the rock breaks loose from the ground. A gust of wind makes Bilbo shiver, even though sweat beads his brow. Calmly, he thinks, calmly.

The rock rises smoothly, its weight not even a strain. His power hums gently in his chest and he has to concentrate to not move the rock too swiftly or abruptly for fear of dislodging himself. Bilbo allows it to hover a little above ground for a moment. Takes another deep breath and steels his nerves to push forward.

Of course the moment the rock he sits on begins to travel he flinches at the movement and almost loses his mental grip. The rock jerks in midair, but as testament to his steady seat, Bilbo does not fall off and manages to stabilize it.

Well, better than his attempts during childhood, he thinks. And while his chest still heaves, he steers the rock toward the abyss. Keeps his eyes focused on the other side and does not look down. Tries his best to ignore the cold wind tearing at his clothes. Or the fact that there is nothing but empty air underneath his feet.

Little by little the other side comes closer and though it feels like forever, at some point he gently can set the rock down on the path again. His legs shake and he spends a very long moment just catching his breath.

But the danger is behind him. Before him the pass rises further, rocky and uneven. Overhead a few white clouds drift past. The wind is both colder and stronger than before, but Bilbo thinks it must be the elevation. As of now the weather looks unlikely to change.

So he continues on.

The sun has begun its descent when he comes upon the cave. He’d have passed it without a thought, had he not spied the familiar bedroll lying half-outside of it. Perhaps another traveler’s, Bilbo thinks while stepping closer.

But it’s not.

The colors, faded as they are, are Bofur’s and Bilbo wonders just how it came to be left behind. Did the dwarves run into trouble? Is there a shortcut through the cave? He studies the entrance with trepidation; dwarves may have a stonesense, but hobbits certainly do not. The darkness within does not beckon either.

“Bofur?” he calls out, tentatively stepping past the entrance. “Balin? Anyone?” His voice echoes eerily.

Of course, he thinks at this moment, if there is an enemy he has just given himself away. His heart jumps, but as he holds his breath no foreign sound comes.

But as his eyes grow used to the darkness, he realizes he is but a few steps away from a large hole, spanning almost the entirety of the cave floor. A cool draft rises from below, and he thinks he can spy a light.

Goblins, he thinks. They are prominent in the mountains and a danger to travelers. It is likely then, that his dwarves did run into trouble. And while he wonders why – dwarves have a better sense of mountains than goblins and the company in particular has excellent fighters – they have also all gotten themselves captured by trolls.

Perhaps, he thinks drily though his stomach sinks at the same time, it’s just Thorin Oakenshield and the special kind of luck the dwarf seems to attract. Trolls, orcs, wargs and now goblins. Bilbo wonders what else they will face before reaching Erebor.

His stomach rebels at the thought of descending deeper into the mountain. It doesn’t look safe – the danger is too high, too unpredictable – and yet he gave a promise.

And he did just ascertain that his grip on his powers improved significantly.

With an unhappy frown Bilbo searches for the next decently sized boulder and climbs onto it. It’s not as stable as the one he used before – he’s likely to fall off – but it’s not heavy. So he envelops it with the invisible grip of his powers and lifts it.

When he’s floating above the hole, he takes a deep breath. And begins to slowly allow the boulder to sink deeper and deeper into the dark.

He doesn’t know how long it takes. The spot under his heart hums gently with power – he can’t sense any discomfort – and yet the concentration he needs to keep the boulder stable and himself balanced atop of it is making his head hurt.

Rock tunnels give away to an enormous cave. Torches light unstable ropeways and rickety constructions.  Thankfully, the place appears abandoned.

Bilbo does not see the goblins that have stopped to watch him descend. That have frozen in surprise at the display of his power. Their greenish skin blends into the stone far too well and for all their usual relentless activity, they are capable of being utterly still.

Not a breath is audible when Bilbo’s feet touch the ground. The wide, silent cavern makes the hair on the back of his neck stand, but he tells himself not to fret. Goblins should not be a problem. Not with his power -

But even his power does not alert him of the goblin that launches itself at him from behind. Bilbo feels the movement, manages to turn and throws out a tendril of power in panic. Then a rock smashes into his head.

He doesn’t even realize that his wide swing of power collapsed the bridge he stands on.

***

When he wakes it is among a nest of mushrooms. His head throbs, and with a groan Bilbo reaches up. Freezes, when he remembers the goblin – but nothing moves and he lets go of a deep breath. He feels something wet coating his fingers and the side of his head and frowns. The entire area feels sore and sensitive to the touch. And of course he doesn’t carry any medical supplies in his backpack.

Grimacing, Bilbo pushes himself up and warily dusts splattered mushroom remains from his jacket. The poor thing wasn’t made for adventuring. Like him – no matter what opinion wizards or immortal elves may have on the matter. He doubts they meant for him to end up somewhere in the depth of the Misty Mountains.

His surroundings are dimmer than the goblin caves above and lack any trace of their rickety architecture. The cave widens onto a small, silent lake. Its black waters make Bilbo shiver – as do the tracks of black blood running over the ground.

His breath hitches. Those tracks are fresh – something was dragged along there, just a few meters from him. Something heavy and bleeding.

But even more frightening than realizing that at least one goblin must have fallen with him is realizing that something must have done the dragging.

A cold shudder runs down Bilbo’s back. Carefully he crawls forward, trying to get a better view of the deceptively silent cave. His fingers brush past something cool and smooth. A throb runs through his body.

It might just be a piece of mushroom. But – that throb did not come from his head and is not an entirely unfamiliar sensation either. His power feels similar. Unconsciously, Bilbo’s hand moves back and finds the foreign object once more.

It’s not a piece of mushroom.

It’s a gold ring.

Curious, Bilbo thinks, it looks entirely unremarkable. But he can feel it hum with some sort of power. Wondering what it might do, Bilbo turns the ring over. Perhaps a magic ring, he wonders and even though he knows that it is dangerous, he inexplicably slips the ring onto his finger to try and see.

And the world shifts.

Bilbo blinks, trying to focus, but realizes that this must be an effect of the ring. Before him everything is bleached to flickering grey and blacks. He also realizes the throb of his own power is much more pronounced than normal – it feels as if it longed to be bursting out, tickles his fingertips.

Uneasily, he slips the ring of again. Getting out here is his first priority. Then the dwarves. And maybe then he can indulge his curiosity.

Bilbo takes a breath and crawls forward another pace.  From his new position he can see the other side of the small lake, but also realizes that there is no exit in sight. Instead he makes out at least three tunnels branching off and with a sinking feeling understands that this is a labyrinth.

He may never find the exit. Bilbo swallows, pushing aside the horrors of slow starvation and everlasting darkness. Tells himself to think – he wouldn’t even know whether to go up or down from here.

But he knows where he came from.

With a sigh Bilbo tilts back his head and looks up. The ceiling is invisible and the rocks disappear into darkness. He cannot make out any light at the end of it –

Bilbo swallows. He is fairly glad he had no opportunity to see just how deep he fell. But now he may not have a choice. Unless he is willing to risk getting lost in the maze of tunnels running through the mountains, he will need to get back up. Hopefully his power will suffice –

The ring throbs.

Well, it probably won’t hurt to try and see whether or not the ring can boost his power.

***

Levitating himself up on another flat rock feels like the easiest thing Bilbo has ever done. On his finger the ring grows warmer, the spot under his heart thrums gently and with every meter he rises the air grows fresher. He almost longs to accelerate the rock, go faster  - but the cautious part of his heart warns him against it.

He missed seeing the goblins once. He will not do so again.

So, the moment he spies light, he halts his ascent and waits. But the goblins don’t see him. They chatter excitedly amongst themselves, even seem to be in an uproar. With baited breath he allows his rock to rise a little.

And realizes too late that he levitated himself right into the path of a group of oncoming goblins. The creatures twitter and hiss – and walk around the hole he ascended from without seeing him.

Bilbo stares after them, dumbfounded. His heart pounds wildly, his fingers are clenched into the rock. He’d been ready to defend himself. Blindly swing a blast of power at them, willing to fight them with everything they got – and they did not see him.

His eyes catch the glint of gold.

Oh, he thinks, his voice quiet next to the wild pounding of his heart, oh. So that is why the world looks so grey and blurry – the ring’s power is invisibility.

It feels like an oddly disappointing conclusion.

But Bilbo’s lips quirk upward. It’s certainly not an unwelcome one. Feeling confident now, he allows the rock to rise further. A strangely lucky turn, perhaps, he contemplates, but after everything that happened, he’s probably deserved it.

Those thoughts vanish when he realizes that nearly every goblin below and above seems to be in motion. Tension lies in the air, something has unsettled them – and they’re all moving into one direction.

A queasy feeling settles in Bilbo’s stomach. It is highly unlikely his dwarves could have caused this. And yet, knowing the particular kind of luck Thorin Oakenshield attracts –

Bilbo takes a deep breath. He’d better find out what has the goblins in such an uproar, anyway.

As he navigates through the chaotic mess of rickety pathways, ladders, swinging ropes and rotten bridges he catches sight of an elevated platform ahead. All the goblins appear to be swarming there and the noise is nigh unbearable –

Until it stops.

“… nobody really,” somebody says, their voice strangely thick, “I know somebody who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just the head, mind you.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks. Cold sweat rolls down his forehead – he’s not made for this. There are so many goblins down there, too many, even with the ring amplifying his powers –

“Azog the Defiler is dead!” Thorin exclaims.

And Bilbo’s grip on the rock almost slips. They’re alive, he thinks, alive, alive, alive! His fingers tremble as he steers the rock closer and his eyes finally make out the familiar dwarves among the mass of twitching goblins. They’re caught, their weapons in a pile on the ground.

Six goblins sit on Dwalin, the same number cling onto Dori. Ori’s frozen stiff between two, while Kili tries to jerk out of the hold three of the creatures have on him. Only Thorin stands free before the gargantuan nightmare of a goblin. Without a weapon in hand, and at least four arrows aimed at his heart.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bilbo’s power wraps itself around the arrows. He bites down on his lower lip, concentrates to not move them yet and keep his rock afloat simultaneously. The ring is warm, and he knows it augments his power.

Maybe they have a chance.

The platform is elevated but not very wide. Goblins are resilient little pests, but they can’t fly. The dwarves are skilled fighters, their weapons within reach. Making sure to keep a hold of all the arrows he sees, Bilbo carefully settles the rock onto the ground.

Takes another shuddering breath. Withdraws his sword with sweaty palms.

“Send word to the pale orc,” the Goblin King announces, “Tell him I have found his –“

Without waiting for him to finish Bilbo flings out a blast of his power at all the goblins around him. The Goblin King flies backward, eight arrows snap in mid-air, several goblins tumble off the platform and the rickety throne crumbles.

Everyone but Bilbo is thrown off their feet and he can feel the ground shake.

“Who?” the Goblin King screeches, climbing back to its feet, “Who is there?”

And because he must be mad already Bilbo slips off the ring. The world abruptly slams back into focus, bright orange flames dancing merrily, the yawning black of the deep abysses below, Sting glowing bright blue and the King a hideous shade of pale green.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he says and gives a mocking bow, “At your service.”

And with a wide wave of his arm he tosses the Goblin King right off the platform.

His heart roars in his ears, but he doesn’t taste blood, and his power still hums, though he must have snapped, and his mind is screaming at him. The dwarves are staring and they need to run, now, and he is insane, he shouldn’t have taken off the ring and –

Thorin dives for the weapons and Dwalin roars and throws off the goblins holding him down. The world starts to move again, something heavy slams into Bilbo just as Bifur shouts something into his direction. Bilbo can’t understand a word, frozen to the spot until he’s whisked off his feet by Bofur.

And then they’re running.

What follows are the most terrifying moments of Bilbo’s life. Dangling upside down from Bofur’s shoulder he bounces helplessly and everywhere he looks there are goblins and they’re screeching and gaining on them and then Bifur’s spear pierces one, while Gloin splits another’s head right open.

Somebody calls his name, and he sees a blur of blond and blue whirl past him, sporting a wide grin. They must be insane, or maybe the world is ending, or it’s because everything is upside down – Bilbo spies an arrow and before he knows what he’s doing turns it around in midair, when Bofur jumps.

They hit the ground hard, Bilbo hears something snap and the world shivers. Somebody shouts, Bofur bumps into Oin, and suddenly Bilbo is set down on his feet. Hands drag him upright, somebody pats his shoulder too hard, but there’s yelling and Kili shoots a goblin much too close, before Balin shoves another two down.

They’re on a small bridge that dangles by two lone ropes. Goblins climb the cave above them – and Bilbo looks up, just as the beam holding the bridge snaps.

Kili screams, Dori dives for Ori and Nori jerks Bilbo to the center. The world rushes past, his heart shudders in his ears and suddenly the ring in his pocket seems to grow warm. They are falling, and Bilbo has an idea.

It’s not particularly sane. But he does not think whatever he will land on will be either comfy or giving, and he would rather they all survive. So with a dry throat Bilbo envelops the entire wooden bridge they stand on with an invisible grip and tries to slow it. The weight is unexpectedly heavy, he doubles over with a gasp, but they do slow down and Fili is yelling something. An arrow whistles past his ear and he allows them to slip further, Thorin shouts, and Kili fires back.

The ground is in sight, and Bilbo realizes that he can actually see daylight. Somebody grabs his shoulder, shouting and shaking, but he’s fixated on the exit and doesn’t even hear the oncoming goblins screech angrily.

They hate daylight, he thinks with a sudden onset of glee. Once they’re outside they will be safe.

So he throws everything he has into his grip and allows it to go faster, moving it away from the rocky walls and ignores the confused shouting of his dwarves friends. His heart is pounding like mad and his mind screams at him, because the bridge should be too heavy and trying to lift the trolls was too much and even a magic ring should not be able to boost his powers like this. Wind rushes past his ears, Fili is shouting something that suspiciously sounds like “Amazing, Bilbo!” but the roar of his own blood is far louder. The strain makes his body tremble, the bridge with them all on it is almost as heavy as a troll –

The side of his head throbs angrily, but the ground is only a few meters away, the exit so close, and he realizes the bridge won’t fit.

Well-

A goblin jumps past, and Kili barely manages to kick it off. Another lands on their floating bridge, and is immediately dispatched by Dwalin. Bilbo’s entire body is trembling and the hum under his heart has turned into a vicious pull, but he can’t let go, his legs are weak, he won’t be able to run and somebody is holding him upright by the shoulder.

His vision begins to tunnel –

But he can see the light of the exit, it’s so close now, blinding, he can’t see what’s outside – and then he slams their bridge into exit, and the impact sends them all flying, the goblins’ frustrated howls echoing behind in the dark.

  _tbc_


	7. An unfortunate encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They escape from the goblin tunnels and Bilbo and Thorin finally manage to have semi-civil conversation. That, of course, is when Azog shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Violence. Serious injuries. And a cliffhanger.

Bilbo does not quite remember how they make their way from the exit of the tunnels to a small clearing further down the mountain. Overhead the sky is clear and a welcome gust of fresh air cools the sweat on Bilbo’s back. He’s on the ground, gasping for air while Oin pokes at his head and Ori more or less props him upright.

Around him, the dwarves are either flat on the ground, gasping for air or prowling with weapons at the ready. But he can’t hear the goblins anymore and they are outside, so they must’ve escaped. Bilbo sucks in a deep breath.

He can’t quite believe they actually made it out. Everything that happened feels utterly fantastical and dream-like, almost as if it had not happened to him. Though the sting when Oin dabs the wound is a bit too real.

Bilbo flinches.

“Don’t fuss,” Oin tells him gruffly, “It’s not a very deep cut.”

“He’s alright?” Fili asks, a bright smile on his face.

Oin frowns and pulls a piece of cloth out from beneath his coat somewhere. “I didn’t say that,” he says, eyeing the cloth critically before tearing off a long strip, “That bruise is going to be a big headache, unless hobbits are made from different stuff than dwarves.”

He begins to wrap the makeshift bandage around Bilbo’s head rather roughly, while Bilbo’s face is still scrunched up from the sting of whatever tincture Oin has put onto the wound. When he wipes at his face, his hand comes away red and Bilbo frowns at it. Hopefully there will be an opportunity to bathe in the future. His jacket still has that rank stench of splattered mushrooms.

“So, all wrapped up and good to go,” Oin declared and gives Bilbo a clap on the shoulder. When he sighs and looks up he realizes the entire company is watching him. Some – Fili, Kili, Bofur and Ori – with bright smiles. Others hover between wary and confused. Thorin’s expression, as always, resembles a thundercloud.

“So you came back,” the King remarks acidly.

Oh dear, Bilbo thinks. After everything that happened, he had utterly forgotten about the ill spirit of their last parting. But even after mysteriously floating goblin kings and a miraculous last minute rescue the King under the Mountain still remembers. Bilbo thinks it’s rather unfair.

“Yes,” he replies.

“And a good thing you did,” Balin adds with forced cheer, “We-“

“That was amazing, Bilbo!” Kili exclaims and throws an arm around him, “Didn’t we tell you? I knew you’d be a great help! I’m glad you’re back!”

He squeezes Bilbo a little too tightly, but Bilbo won’t complain. Not when Fili joins their impromptu hug with a telling glare toward his uncle. Though if he’s entirely honest with himself, he’d rather not cause a family feud if possible.

“That was, indeed, most interesting,” Dwalin grumbles from the side and sets his axe down with a hard clonk, “And I am most curious to hear what it was I saw there.”

Bilbo spies several of the dwarves nodding rather enthusiastically. Bombur looks particularly wide-eyed, while Thorin retains his glower. And Bilbo wonders, with his heart sinking, if anything he does will ever be enough.

Perhaps not for Thorin – but the others look hopeful. Bilbo clears his throat and disentangles himself from Kili and Fili, though he enjoys that they remain close. That they know makes this easier, even though he still fumbles for words.

“What you saw… what I did there,” he shakes his and nervously runs a hand through his hair, a strand catching painfully on the bandage, “It’s, well, it’s a particular talent of mine?”

He chuckles nervously, sees Balin nod while Gloin frowns and Nori watches him closely.

“It’s not magic, is it?” Ori asks inquisitively.

Bilbo swallows and nods. “As far as I know.”

“How so?” Balin inquires, “That you aren’t certain, I mean.”

“To my understanding magic is something you can learn through study,” Bilbo replies with a small quirk of his lips since that is a question he himself asked after his talent manifested, “My talent simply … happened. I have learned to handle it somewhat, but there are definite limits as to what I can do.”

“And what is that talent, exactly?” Dori wonders, “You make things fly?”

Bilbo hesitates a moment. Then shrugs. “More or less, yes.”

“With his mind,” Kili supplies helpfully. “He can make things fly just by concentrating on it. If he wanted to have Dwalin’s axe over there, he just has to think it.”

A small titter runs through the company and Bilbo smiles uneasily. Dwalin frowns at him as if daring him to move his axe, though Gloin appears intrigued. “Can you really do that? Move Dwalin’s axe?”

Even though he doesn’t really want to annoy Dwalin, Bilbo knows a challenge when he sees one. The spot under his heart is sore, drained, yet when he reaches out he finds his power still responds smoothly to his beckoning. It’s odd, a part of him thinks, that after this exertion he still can access it; odd that he hasn’t even gotten a nosebleed, though for now he will not question his good fortune. Ignoring the exhaustion seeping into his bones, he gently tugs Dwalin’s axe out of his hands - the dwarf’s grip is strong, but he does let go sooner rather than later – and floats it over to Gloin. Several pair of eyes watch the process in utter fascination – as if they hadn’t witnessed Bilbo toss the Goblin King right off the platform only moments before.

Next to him he catches Kili nod enthusiastically, while the rest of the company mutters in amazement. Bilbo shifts his weight. He can still remember the tittering on the market when his power used to manifest in surprising bursts. The distrustful glances cast his way. And the speculations; whether his wasn’t a power of evil. Some bad omen –

“Now, that is indeed very impressive, Master Baggins,” Gloin declares abruptly, breaking Bilbo’s contemplations, “And this would also explain the alarming number of impossible things that occurred after you appeared in the goblin realm, I believe.”

Bilbo nods, while around him the company begins to mumble again. He hears the goblin king mentioned, the strange blast that knocked them all off their feet. Their mysterious descent to the exit, when they all should have fallen to their deaths.

“When we were chased by the wargs, you helped too, didn’t you?” Ori inquires, “I think I saw an arrow turn in midair and thought my mind just made that up.”

He sounds almost accusing, and Bilbo grimaces. “Yes, I did that, too.”

“He also helped with the trolls,” Fili declares, “Though they were heavy?”

“Too heavy,” Bilbo confirms and sees Balin shake his head in amazement. Even Dwalin’s lips seem to twitch.

“That would explain your mysterious fainting spells, would it not?” Oin inquires eyeing Bilbo sharply, “And here I was worried some illness ailed you.”

“Lifting trolls…” Dori mutters, shaking his head and Bilbo feels a flush beginning to spread across his face. “You’re quite something, really.”

Dwalin chuckles. “So the wizard did have his reasons after all.”

“Actually,” Bilbo interrupts and has to clear his throat to be heard over the voices declaring to understand Gandalf’s brilliance, “Actually, he doesn’t know.”

“What?” Kili echoes.

“Why doesn’t he know?” Balin inquires after a moment of silence.

Bilbo shifts uneasily. “It’s, well… it never came up. And I didn’t really want to have this talent widely known. Still would prefer if you could keep quiet about it?”

Bofur slings an arm around his shoulder. “Sure thing, laddie, sure thing. But you’ll allow Ori to chronicle it, won’t you?”

Ori nods emphatically. “It would be very hard to explain how we got away from some thousand goblins on our own. There has to be some sort of magic involved.”

On the one hand, dwarves are known to be terribly secretive about their histories. On the other hand, Bilbo knows that being secretive about something is even more likely to inspire interest. And from the amount of lore circling dwarven history those secrets have a price on the market.

“Maybe you could leave out my name?” he asks.

“Master Baggins,” Gloin protests with a huff, “If this quest should succeed dwarves will forevermore remember your name with reverence.”

It’s a bit much. Not that Bilbo is unaware of the possible historical implications of Thorin’s quest, but his potential part within was not something he has spent too much time thinking about. He shifts his weight and tries to find an answer when Thorin clears his throat.

“As it is still a long way until Erebor, I would suggest to postpone this discussion. Night will fall soon and we should put some more distance between us and the goblins.”

A cool gust of wind rushes through the trees and when Bilbo glances up he finds the sky clear but the sun gone. They probably have two hours of daylight left, so Thorin’s suggestion is very apt. Around him the dwarves collect themselves with groans and sighs, but they all understand the necessity of moving on.

***

“Master Baggins,” Thorin calls out the moment Bilbo finishes his small dinner portion, “Walk with me.”

Bilbo glances at Bofur and Ori in confusion, before rising with a shrug. Around him the dwarves continue their meagre, but very content feast – the night is warmer than expected and they’re all happy to have escaped alive.

Thorin is silent as he leads Bilbo away from the camp, his face set in a frown. Bilbo begins to wonder what this could be about – has he inadvertently offended Thorin? Is the King wary of his power, the way some in Hobbiton called it a curse? Will Thorin ask him to leave the company, now, when Bilbo has finally decided he wants to join?

His stomach sinks further when he realizes Thorin has led him out onto a ledge. The moon shines brightly, bathing the grass in blue light, but the wind feels significantly colder out here. And the sight before him is simultaneously elating and frightening – they are surrounded by snow-capped mountains with no trace of settlement in between.

Home has never felt more distant.

“Mister Baggins,” Thorin interrupts Bilbo’s melancholic contemplations, “Peace. I only felt it would be proper for us to talk away from the others in light of our last … conversation.”

Bilbo feels his lips twitch. He hasn’t entirely forgiven Thorin’s rudeness, but apparently the King under the Mountain is aware that it went less than ideally.

“Perhaps for the best,” Bilbo agrees, wondering if he should prepare for an all-out shouting match this time.

Thorin stiffens at his unexpected response and then exhales loudly. “I have to admit, you… do infuriate me, at times.”

“Likewise,” Bilbo returns, “Also I have found you impossibly rude.”

Thorin huffs and has to visibly force himself to calm down. And at that moment Bilbo realizes that he himself has perhaps been slightly too gleeful about riling Thorin up.

“I would rather not have this conversation go quite so badly again,” Thorin announces grandly, “And I most certainly never intended to be rude.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows involuntarily rise up. “You have – “

Thorin interrupts him. “I am well aware of my behavior toward you, Mister Baggins, and I do well understand my errors. However, I would ask you to extend the same courtesy to me.”

Aside from using his power to tug on Thorin’s coat Bilbo cannot recall any instance on where he actively acted rude. Even the disastrous conversation in Rivendell lasts squarely on Thorin’s shoulders. But he also suspects they will never be able to end this conversation if he continues to challenge him. So he inclines his head and indicates for Thorin to continue.

“You… have perhaps become aware that I have often dealt with others having designs on me. This has caused me to perhaps react to strangers with more suspicion than warranted – and I won’t deny that I thought I knew your type,” Thorin says and turns to look at Bilbo instead of the mountains, “But I have been wrong and I owe you thanks for saving us back in the tunnels.”

Bilbo sighs and feels the tension in his body begin to evaporate. He allows his body to lean more against the trunk of a fallen tree and gazes at the stars above. “We probably have both been wrong about one another, then. I have been wary, too – your arrival was not announced to me in any form.”

Thorin snorts and sits next to Bilbo. Up close Bilbo does feel small – at a distance he can pretend Thorin is not much taller than him, but seated next to each other there is no chance to deny that he only comes up to Thorin’s shoulder.

“That is regrettable, but –“ Thorin begins and this time Bilbo shakes his head.

“No, no, I know Gandalf set you up the same way he did with me. It’s water under the bridge now.”

Thorin nods and yet still radiates a degree of tension. “That put aside, I still do not entirely understand why you did come with us. At first I thought you did it to spite me –“

And while that may have been true to a degree, Bilbo once again can only marvel at the high opinion Thorin has of himself.

“- And expected you to turn back. Which you did, in Rivendell. I don’t understand why you did not turn around before and I do not understand why you are here,” Thorin finishes his small monologue and Bilbo frowns at the night sky, “I would like to know your reasons.”

Bilbo can’t help but feel a little disappointed. After all he has braved, Thorin does not trust him. Certainly, the dwarf is grateful for Bilbo’s aid and his timely rescue – but he also suspects ulterior motives. Not that, recalling the conversations he overheard in Rivendell, Thorin is wrong to do so.

He bites on his lower lip and tries to find the answer. “I… am not entirely certain myself,” he admits, deciding to be honest and hoping it will turn out for the best, “At first I merely thought of seeing the world a bit. Then, well, I – there is a part of me that has begun to think that helping you is the right thing to do.”

Thorin’s lips grow thin. “Is that what the wizard told you?”

Bilbo jerks backward. “No!” he exclaims, astonished at Thorin’s abrupt – and utterly wrong – conclusion, “I … “ He shakes his head. “That was me being honest. Not everybody has an ulterior motive, Master Dwarf, and at least among my people it is considered quite common to help out doing what is right.”

His heart pounds and he frowns angrily at the nighttime landscape. What did he expect, Bilbo thinks, this is Thorin Oakenshield, after all.

Thorin takes an audible breath. “Peace, Mister Baggins. But since we have met you have successfully charmed my men and wormed your way into the center of my company. Would you call this chance?”

Is he honestly accusing Bilbo of undermining his authority? Seducing away his friends and kin? Bilbo is so dumbfounded, he sputters for a moment. “That, Master Dwarf, is what I call being sensible. In case you have not noticed, there are no other hobbits or other acquaintances of mine among your company and I was merely being social.”

It’s not his fault Thorin lacks all social skills – but Bilbo bites down on his tongue in order to stop himself from saying that.

Thorin does indeed appear slightly chastened. Or at least contemplative. “Indeed,” he begins, when a loud, familiar howl cuts him off.

Bilbo’s blood freezes. His eyes meet Thorin’s and he can see the same, terrible realization mirrored within them.

“Wargs,” Thorin hisses.

And from down below they hear Dwalin shout. “At arms! Arms!” and then the howling grows louder and fiercer and Bilbo realizes that he can hear orcs yelling, too. Thorin jumps up, unsheathes his sword and Bilbo weakly fumbles for his.

“The others,” he murmurs, eyes studying the forest below in panic, but the treetops merely move in the breeze. They’re too far, too distant – and the wind carries the sounds of battle, the shouts, the roars – clashes of metal, but the mountain slope is silent, until he finally spots the corner.

“There they are!” he shouts and points to another clifftop, a good three hundred meters below and far to their right. They can see the small figures of their friends stumble out onto the ledge, swinging weapons and fighting, but they’re being driven back. And there’s nothing but empty air behind them.

And Bilbo’s short legs will never make it in time.

“Thorin, wait!” he shouts after the King, “Here!”

He gestures to the fallen trunk they’d been sitting on, heart pounding in his throat. Madness, a part of him screams, madness. The trunk is bound to be heavy and he’s strained his powers in the tunnels and he’s never lifted anything with two people on it and this could kill them both. But down below Gloin barely manages to dispatch an orc before it can get to Nori and they’re out of time.

“What are you –“ Thorin begins, looking at him as if mad.

“I’ll get us down there. Faster,” Bilbo shouts, hoping that his powers will not mess this up, “Sit!”

Eyeing Bilbo warily, Thorin follows his instructions and straddles the trunk. Bilbo follows suit, takes a deep breath – and then lifts the trunk in the air. A small, choked noise falls from Thorin’s lips, but Bilbo has to concentrate. He can feel the pull right under his heart and he was right, the trunk is heavy, and even though in the tunnels his power felt almost limitless, he hasn’t truly rested since.

The wind tears at his hair, and he realizes they’re going fast, but Thorin’s expression is grim and determined and the wind carries shouting and screams. Metal hitting metal, the gurgle of a dying beast –

“Thorin!” Dwalin exclaims and for a moment the battle halts.

Both, orcs and dwarves freeze as they behold the levitating trunk, caring Thorin Oakenshield and a small, ordinary hobbit from the Shire. A gust of wind makes Thorin’s coat billow – and with a roar he leaps off the trunk before Bilbo can set it down.

The dwarves cheer. And a spark of madness lights up in Bilbo’s chest. The moment his feet touch the ground on the side of the cliff, he does not allow the trunk to fall. Instead he raises it and flings it into a group of four charging wargs as hard as he can.

A yowl of fear tears through the night.

Sweat makes his shirt stick to his back and his chest heaves. A wave of his arm and an orc sneaking up on Kili flies off the cliff and into the night. He can hear it scream and his heart races both with fright and elation.  They’re – they may win this. Thorin and Dwalin and Fili and Dori are actually advancing. The orcs appear confused, halting and faltering in their attacks. Some stay back at the treeline, hesitant to be targeted by the unknown force. Even in the dim light Bilbo can see fear and uncertainty flicker across their faces.

Yes, he thinks and viciously flings another warg and its rider aside, yes, go back. Flee. He hopes they will turn and retreat because there is only an abyss behind his back. They cannot run, but the orcs can and if his power frightens them enough, maybe they will.

In his pocket the ring begins to grow warmer. Bilbo bites down on his lower lip, gasps for air. But the fight is relentless and he barely manages to stop an orc from jumping Ori, while Kili’s arrow takes out yet another warg. Thorin and Dwalin have almost disappeared into the woods again, but Bilbo can hear them shouting, and they must be close to victory.

Abruptly, he grows nauseous.

It’s as if his stomach dropped. Like lying on the grass in the Shire and staring into the blue sky for so long that the ground started spinning. But there is no cause to feel so, Bilbo wonders, things are going well. He’s lightheaded, too, and the ground feels strange under his feet. Almost as if it was moving –

A touch of hot, fetid breath brushes past his cheek and a soft noise draws his attention down. To where the tip of a sword is being pulled back through his chest.

Oh, Bilbo thinks dizzily, oh. That’s why –

Then the world tilts abruptly and he sees the shape of a giant, white orc tower above him. From the distance somebody might be shouting his name, but it all feels terribly far away, even Thorin’s enraged roar of “Azooooooog!!!!!”

This makes sense, Bilbo thinks, staring up at the quietly tinkling stars above. The night sky seems so calm. Steady, yet spinning at the same time. He feels somewhat sick, as if moving the slightest might make him even more so. He’s warm, and a part of his mind is screaming that that’s not all right, but he’s comfortable and the ground is soft and the night air pleasant –

“Bilbo! Bilbo!” somebody is yelling his name, but all he can make out is a blurry shape bent above him.

“Bilbo, hold on!”

But even though that’s his name it doesn’t feel as if he’s being called. So he closes his eyes and allows the world to spin away into darkness.

_tbc_


	8. Rest and Recovery I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the attack. Bilbo recovers, learns what happened and begins to grow closer with Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None really for this chapter, though the aftermath is dealt with. Calm chapter ahead.

For a long, long time he floats through a dark void. Sometimes he thinks there are voices calling to him from far away. Thinks there is a light just beyond the horizon. But then sound and sensation fade again.

Until finally, he grows aware of warmth surrounding him. A faint scent of straw and honey tickles his nose - and he involuntarily sniffles. Blinks. Realizes that he lies on something soft and comfortable, with no memory of how he got here or where he even could be. His mind is sluggish in recollecting - did he really leave his home behind to join a mad quest? Has he truly met the ageless figures of legends in Rivendell, fought wargs and goblins? Has he -

A throb runs through his body. Pain echoes distantly from his torso – but it’s not pain as much as it’s a memory of it and the knowledge that something is wrong. There is a faint ache pulsing behind his temples, the kind he gets from sleeping too long. His eyes feel crusty, his body unusually heavy and weak. Only the hum of his power is constant, if it feels slightly less forceful than usual.

His throat is parched, but even lifting his hand is a task. The wrist looks strangely bony - but that's not surprising when he thinks on how little he has eaten since he left Bag End behind. Lying on this soft bed, everything still feels like a dream.

An unreal, grotesque fantasy that ended with a blade sticking out of his chest. Bile rises in Bilbo’s throat and he’s left longing for that water, just to dispel the terrible taste of dried copper in his mouth. Now that his mind begins to focus he can’t hold back the memories; the encounter with Galadriel, his utterly irrational decision to follow his dwarves and the madness that ensued.

Did he really manage to knock over an entire horde of goblins? Was it really so easy to levitate the platform they all stood on, or was that fear driving him? Had his odd magic ring truly grown warm? Lying here these memories feel as if they belong to another person. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire had never been one for adventures, strange talent or no.

A grimace pulls at his cracked lips and Bilbo is just beginning to seriously consider attempting to sit up when a door opens and a familiar figure steps into the room.

"Awake at last!" Oin exclaims with a grin, and behind him Balin greets Bilbo with a cheerful smile.

"Yes," Bilbo confirms hoarsely, "and..."

"A drink, of course," Balin finishes and moves over to a small table. A carafe filled with clear water sits there and Bilbo's throat aches with desire.

"Alright," Oin perches himself on a low stool, while Bilbo greedily drinks the offered water, "Now, are you going to be awake a bit longer? I have questions."

Bilbo nods. His throat rejoices, though his stomach twists oddly around the cool water. He must have been out for quite a while.

"First, you know who you are and what happened?"

"Yes," Bilbo replies, "Well, the last thing I remember is the attack." Being run through, actually, though that turns his stomach. It wasn't bad when it happened, but thinking about it now - 

It's a miracle he is still alive.

"What happened then?" He asks. They'd been winning, or at least had gotten the advantage. But that was before the white Orc - Azog - had slipped under Bilbo's guard.

Oin grimaces and Balin chuckles, though it does sound forced. "Gandalf arrived with giant Eagles. The orcs chose to retreat at that point and the Eagles brought us here."

Giant Eagles.

Bilbo blinks. He knows they exist, but this sounds too much like the incredible stories that supposedly occurred after he passed out at Mirabella Longleaf's 40th birthday party.

"It was indeed rather unexpected and miraculous," Balin agrees, "but well timed. There is no saying how the battle might have turned out otherwise."

Oin harrumphs. "And your injury needed looking after, too."

Bilbo is more than willing to believe that. He still can't quite fathom what happened to him, though he thinks he can feel the slight sting of a healing injury on his torso. "Where are we?" He asks, because this doesn't feel like Rivendell.

"An acquaintance of Gandalf's," Balin tells him, "A skin changer named Beorn."

First giant Eagles, now a skin changer? "Right," says Bilbo and Balin's lips twitch at his tone. "If you don't mind, I'll tell the others you're up. They've all been rather concerned."

Balin slips from the room and Oin asks him to unbutton the shirt. It's not one of his own, Bilbo notices - it's big enough to be sliding off his shoulders and long enough to double as a nightgown. He wonders what became of his pack - he hasn't packed much, but he was carrying spare clothes.

As Oin brushes aside the shirt Bilbo sees the bright red scar on the left side of his stomach the first time. The edges are raised and crusty around the stitches - it's almost as long as his hand.

Nausea rises, while Oin carefully palpitates the edges and then sits back with a satisfied expression. "It is healing surprisingly well. No signs of infection and no other complications - you've really been extraordinarily lucky."

Bilbo winces. Being run through is not what he considers to be lucky.

Oin shakes his head. "The sword missed all the important organs. You've lost a bit of blood, but that will be back in a few days."

Bilbo nods and rather hurries to button up his shirt again, as he'd prefer not think about the injury too deeply. "How long have I been asleep?"

Oin glances up from the tincture he is mixing. "Oh, about four days, I think."

Bilbo's mind is still reeling at the idea when Oin forces some vile mixture down his throat and then decrees that while not up to walking, it might be a good idea for Bilbo to sit elsewhere for a bit.

***

Resting on a comfortable seat next to the window, Bilbo is marveling at the landscape outside when the door opens again to admit new visitors. Gandalf is the first, walking in with a bright smile and open arms, but Fili and Kili almost push him over, brushing past him , beaming at Bilbo. Ori follows more sedately behind, overshadowed by the tallest person Bilbo has ever seen.

"That is our host," Gandalf introduces the giant, just before Kili wraps his arms around Bilbo and almost smothers him.

"Bilbo," the young dwarf exclaims, "Bilbo, I'm so glad to see you awake! We were so worried, that was really scary for a while!"

As his own memory of being run through is not very comforting, Bilbo thinks it might be even less so for those that had to watch. "Yes, yes," he mutters and pats Kili's back soothingly, "Sorry about that."

Fili gives him a grim smile over Kili's shoulder. "We didn't know if you were alive at first," he says, "Azog certainly thought you dead."

"What happened after?" Bilbo inquires, eager to shift the topic away from himself, "I heard you arrived with Eagles, Gandalf?"

The wizard looks older, suddenly. "I did," he replies, "And feared I was too late already. The entire company was in an uproar and you were bleeding out on the ground."

"It's a pity uncle didn't get Azog's head!" Kili shouts fiercely and loosens his grip slightly.

Gandalf frowns. "Azog is a skilled fighter."

Bilbo recalls the pale silhouette towering above him. He'd felt dangerous, abnormal. From Balin he knows some of the horrid tale entangling the line of Durin with the Pale Orc. He’d just not expected to find himself right in the middle.

“Uncle will get him the next time,” Kili states firmly and then turns to look at Bilbo. “Or I will,” he promises, “Nobody hurts our lucky number and gets away with it!”

Behind him Fili is smiling and nodding, and Bilbo realizes that they are serious. His stomach twists, wondering just what he did to deserve their loyalty. They’re too young to be making promises like this – but before he can find words, Beorn speaks up.

“That may be sooner than you expect,” he tells them, “The Defiler will have predicted your destination by now. He only has to wait.”

Fili grimaces and a shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. Only Kili straightens up without removing the one arm he still has around Bilbo, and declares: “Well, good. Then we don’t have to hunt him down.”

The corners of Beorn’s mouth twitch, though the look he exchanges with Gandalf is anything but light-hearted. Bilbo, with a sinking feeling, recalls his conversation with Galadriel and her ominous words concerning Thorin and things moving in the shadows. He wonders if Gandalf gained any new insights.

The wizard’s face is set in a frown, though when he notices Bilbo’s inquisitive gaze he forces a smile. “Well, for now we’re all safe,” he tells the hobbit, “And I’m truly glad to see you awake, Bilbo.”

Something in Gandalf’s voice makes Bilbo think that the wizard truly means it. That he hadn’t meant for Bilbo to get hurt in this.  Which – considering the danger and the dragon awaiting at the end of the quest – is ridiculous.

Bilbo smiles. “Well, I certainly won’t complain,” he replies and swallows down the part about not expecting to wake up. His friends look harrowed enough – he does not need to cause them further grief, even though he still wants to know why Gandalf couldn’t have shown up a bit earlier. “Where were you, before?”

Kili and Fili turn to look at Gandalf, too. The wizard’s brow furrows. “I had --- matters to attend to. After which I came here – I had told Thorin to meet with me here. Master Beorn then informed me that you had run into trouble.”

He would like to know whether or not that business concerned the necromancer or any  of the other obscure evils endangering their quest, Bilbo thinks. Meanwhile Fili tilts his head questioningly. “How did you know?”

Gandalf looks over to Beorn. On whose shoulder appears a small, brown mouse at exactly that moment, rubbing against his broad neck. “The animals told me,” Beorn replies, gruffly.

Right, Bilbo tells himself, Beorn’s a skin changer. It stands to reason he can converse with animals.

***

The rest of the day passes in a flurry of visits. And even though Bilbo is tired and Oin radiates disapproval, Fili and Kili badger Dwalin into carrying Bilbo over to the giant dining room. Bilbo marvels at the sheer size of anything – the last time he sat on a chair this much taller than himself, he was but a small child – and enviously eyes Nori and Bofur nursing their generously sized ales.

Oin keeps a strict eye on Bilbo’s plate and insists on a light meal, firmly pushing the honey cakes Bifur offers aside. Dori announces he’s mostly done mending Bilbo’s cloak, and he hopes the hobbit doesn’t mind that he mended the remaining shirts, either, while Fili and Kili engage the dogs and sheep serving them.

It’s perhaps the strangest dinner Bilbo has ever been too. But even though the wound on his chest begins to ache not half-way through, by the time they’re done he’s holding his stomach from laughing too much. Even Beorn can’t help but grin at the antics while Thorin watches with an unchanging expression – though Bilbo thinks he might actually be amused.

He still doesn’t know where they stand. Their one attempt at a civil conversation was rather rudely interrupted by Azog, after all.

Once the food is gone and only Bombur nibbles on the last pieces of cheese, somebody starts a retelling of their quest so far and within a few sentences the story becomes outrageously dramatic. The trolls never posed a problem and the wargs turned tail the moment they encountered the company. But among the increasingly convoluted retellings of victories, Bilbo’s power is never mentioned. Instead Fili emphasizes how he outwitted the trolls and surprised the goblins and Beorn looks suitably impressed.

“Not bad, for a tiny bunny,” the skin changer declares and Bilbo forgets just how unrealistic Kili’s version of tale was immediately.

“I beg your pardon,” the hobbit stammers, “What-“

“Bunny,” Bofur echoes from behind his now fourth ale, “Your nose kept twitching. That’s why.”

Beorn nods and is joined by everybody else around the table. Bilbo gapes and then reaches for Dori’s ale – but Oin catches it and smacks his hands away. Bilbo winces and rubs his hand. “Allergies,” he declares with a sniffle.

***

Later, when the uproar has mostly died down and Bilbo is settling down to sleep, somebody knocks on his door. Taken aback and disgruntled at the late interruption – and didn’t Oin insist he needed more sleep throughout the entire evening? – Bilbo calls for them to enter.

His fatigue vanishes when Thorin steps through the doorway. The king has removed his armor, Bilbo realizes while Thorin closes the door behind him. He’s wearing a simple blue tunic and inclines his head toward Bilbo. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Thorin begins.

Bilbo shakes his head. “No, no. I … no.”

Thorin takes a moment to study him and Bilbo grows conscious of how awkward he must look. The shirt he wears is several sizes too large and he’s still pale from blood loss. At least his hair is clean now, but he looks forward to being able to take an extended bath in a real bathtub.

“Well. I wanted to thank you,” Thorin says, “Had you not helped, I doubt we would all be here now.”

Bilbo’s treacherous heart begins to pound loudly. “I did what I could.”

Thorin nods. “And yet you could have gotten yourself to safety and waited it out. Instead you chose to fight and help us. I appreciate that.”

That’s where the problem lies; Bilbo knows, and looks up to meet Thorin’s eyes. “I –“ he hesitates and then decides to forgo formality, “Thorin, there was no other course of action. I may not have signed a contract or anything, but I consider myself part of this company. And that means I’m not going to run from a fight when there is a way I can help.”

Thorin blinks and Bilbo can see the wheels in his head begin to turn. He takes a step forward and spontaneously reaches out to take Thorin’s hand and hold it between both of his. “I consider you my friends, Thorin,” he tells the King emphatically, “And I hope someday you will do the same.”

His heart is in his throat and his wound throbs in time with it. What is he saying, he wonders, he’s a Baggins, not some addle-minded Gillbottom. He’s read up on dwarves and he knows they’re secretive and private and implying they’re friends with another race is nigh unheard of.

“I don’t think you have to wait quite so long,” Thorin tells him with a small smile that transforms his entire face. Something warm blossoms in Bilbo’s stomach and he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s embarrassing and he knows this feeling and he’s too old for it – This is something for tweens, for youth - for those given to passions and idealism. Certainly not for middle-aged, confirmed bachelors. 

Of course he’s take notice of Thorin’s looks and of course he can appreciate attractive beings regardless of species and gender, but Thorin? It’s taken them ages to even speak civilly to each other and Bilbo still isn’t sure he actually likes Thorin as a person - though his heart has already decided that he does, very much at that, and if even Galadriel indirectly approves of his quest then his heart probably is right.

What stops Bilbo’s mind from short-circuiting is Thorin resting his other hand on top of Bilbo’s and the difference in size is absurd. “But as your friend,” Thorin says, ignorant of the confusion raging in Bilbo’s mind, “I know the company would feel safer if you promised to run.”

When Bilbo’s mouth opens, Thorin hastens to add. “Not far, of course. Just far enough to get out of the fight – we all hope you will support us from there. Your talent is invaluable and I’m very glad to have you with us.”

And the pressure on Bilbo’s hands increases and his head is spinning. This feels too much like a dream, too surreal. Too much like everything else that happened in the last couple of days.

“But I think we all have realized that your talent does not guarantee your safety and I’m afraid it may not be too useful in close combat,” Thorin tells him, “So when it comes to a fight – and while I pray it won’t, I know better than not to plan for it – either seek safety or make sure you don’t find yourself alone. We will do our best to guard you.”

Bilbo's heart skips a beat and his mind unhelpfully grows blank. He wants to say something, thank Thorin, tell him he can take care of himself, anything, but the words just don't come.

Instead, Thorin's forehead wrinkles. "Or... Can you still use your power? The injury didn't...."

Bilbo glances down at their still joined hands and shakes his head. "No," he replies and even though his body feels sore, the spot beneath his heart hums smoothly. In order to dispel any doubt, he disentangles one hand and makes the pillow on his bed rise into the air. It hovers there and Bilbo only relinquishes his mental grip when Thorin gives a minuscule nod.

"I'm glad," Thorin tells him, "Azog has long haunted my kin and allies. Now that he has seen what you are capable of, he will also thirst for your blood. I'm sorry you have been dragged into this."

A shudder runs down Bilbo's spine. He's not important, he wants to protest. Just a small hobbit from the Shire. But perhaps that is what his father was afraid of - having his talent noticed.

"Well, I have no intention of letting anyone sneak up on me again," Bilbo declares.

Thorin gives him a small smile in return. "And we will endeavor to support that. But beware of him. Azog has ... taken many lives already."

A shadow crosses his face and Bilbo wonders how many of those Azog murdered had been close friends or family. The next time he sees the Pale Orc, he decides, he will fling him against the nearest rock and end him.

"Well, I will not keep you up any longer," Thorin says and almost reluctantly lets go of Bilbo’s hand, "I'm afraid I have already kept you up too long. Oin is bound to have words." The warmth of his grip lingers and Bilbo’s heart flutters.

Thorin grants him one more gentle smile and stands. Bilbo watches him, contemplatively - his heart knows what it is feeling, though his mind has not yet followed through. However, the issue is not pressing and with the dangerous road ahead, who knows what will become of it. 

Companionship may be a compromise, his mind offers; an intimate friendship the most he ought to hope for. His heart in response whispers that this ought to suffice, and with a small sigh he sinks down on the mattress. He’s suddenly feeling tired again; exhausted. Yet, there are still many things he wants to ask Thorin, so many things he wants to know and learn. And yet his eyes are already closing when Thorin bids him goodnight.


	9. Rest and Recovery II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo recovers, talks with Gandalf and contemplates what may or may not be developing between Thorin and him. The dwarves begin to plan for the road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of violence mentioned in the beginning, then it's mostly calm waters ahead!

It takes another day before Oin allows Bilbo out of bed. He protests, staring longingly at the blooming green outdoors but the dwarves try their best to keep Bilbo company. And, he finds, his body needs sleep after the exertions of the previous night.

Only after noon does he manage to gather himself enough to leave his bed. His reflection in the water bucket one of Beorn’s dogs provides him with still looks pale and haggard. With a frown he dunks the wet rag in the water, blurring the reflection.

“You’ll look well-enough again soon,” Dori tells him, “Blood loss just isn’t good for the complexion. Thorin, too, but he’s got to be half-dead before he stays down.”

Bilbo pauses in wiping down his face. “Thorin?” he echoes, “Was he injured?”

Dori shrugs. “Nothing dramatic. Most of us got some scrapes and bruises, but after you went down Thorin did go straight after Azog. A bit of a mad charge, and we had to scramble to cover his back and get you to safety at the same time.”

Bilbo’s stomach somersaults and he misses Dori holding out a jar. “Here, that’s from Oin. Put it onto the wound, it should help. Oin will check the stitches later.”

“Thanks,” Bilbo mutters, his head still caught on the story, “But Thorin didn’t get to Azog, did he?”

He thought Gandalf had arrived the moment he passed out. To know that time passed in between – his chest tightens and the wound itches uncomfortably.

“They only traded three or four blows,” Dori answers, “Then the warg got him. Azog’s warg, it’s a large white monster, even for that species. Jumped straight over Dwalin’s head and left a deep scratch on Thorin’s arm.”

With a frown Bilbo puts aside the rag and unbuttons his shirt. The injury is still red and puffy, but the surrounding skin is slowly regaining color. Aside from a slight pull or itch every now and then and a deeper sense of discomfort, Bilbo barely even notices it. Which, he knows, is extraordinarily lucky.

“Did Gandalf come in then?” he asks, while he reaches for the ointment.

“Only a few moments later, though I can’t honestly tell you how much time passed,” Dori replies, “At that time we were about ready to confront Azog all out – first you, then Thorin had gone down and there wasn’t much of an avenue of escape available. But then Ori realized you were still alive and I think that was the moment the Eagles came down.”

It must have been a nightmare, Bilbo thinks with a shudder. And he is cravenly grateful to not have been awake.

“But you all are unharmed?” Bilbo asks just to make sure. He missed Thorin’s injury completely, after all.

Dori shrugs. “Nobody lost a limb and we’re all still alive. In all honesty, Master Baggins, this is more than any of us expected when we signed on for this quest.”

 ***

Dori leaves and is replaced by Gandalf after a few moments. The wizard crosses the room in long strides, but even he looks dwarfed by the oversized furniture. Gandalf takes a long, hard look at Bilbo before relaxing with a loud exhale.

“You are one truly, extraordinarily lucky hobbit,” Gandalf tells him, “For a moment I thought I had sent you to your death.”

Bilbo blinks at the abrupt confession. Relief is written across Gandalf’s face, but a shadow of fear still lingers. Uncomfortably, Bilbo rearranges his blankets. “I, well... I guess I should have been more careful?” he hazards.

Gandalf shakes his head softly. “Yes. That you could have been, and yet, did you not declare your part in the quest over in Rivendell? While I am pleasantly surprised to find you here, the manner in which I found you was deeply troubling. What made you change your mind?”

It’s almost as if Gandalf realized only then just how ill-prepared Bilbo was to take on this adventure. His lips twitch – for a wizard, Gandalf can be surprisingly short-sighted. Or perhaps not, if Galadriel’s words held any truth. Though Bilbo still fails to see how he is supposed to play a larger part in these happenings.

“I overheard something,” Bilbo returns hesitantly. Old acquaintance Gandalf may be, but these are matters he is not accustomed to speaking about, “Concerning Thorin. And then I spoke with Lady Galadriel and she said it might be a good idea for me to stay with the company.”

Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Did she?” he inquires, “Well, that is... Well.” He coughs.

“I think she meant that she believes you have a plan,” Bilbo adds quietly.

Gandalf’s gaze grows sharper. For a moment, he seems to weigh something on his mind before coming to a decision. “What did you hear?”

Bilbo sighs. The blue skies outside feel distant, now. “That Thorin may just be a pawn in a larger game. Something about a necromancer. That something is changing in the world.”

Gandalf’s eyes remain hard for a moment longer, before they soften abruptly. “My dear Bilbo,” he mutters with a shake of his head, “You are truly quite an unusual hobbit.”

As it does not address any of his concerns, Bilbo replies with a half-smile and hopes Gandalf will deign to give him a real answer. Though the wizard’s loud sigh does not bode well. “Rumors,” Gandalf says, “Rumors and whispers on the wind. Nothing corporeal – and Saruman is right that Sauron cannot regain his full strength while his greatest weapon is missing.”

“But?” Bilbo asks.

Gandalf looks at him. “Nothing you should concern yourself with, Bilbo Baggins. Dark rumors, it seems.”

“And yet,” Bilbo presses, “It was Lady Galadriel who said that something was moving. Who told me Thorin may be a pawn. And told me to follow. Does she not have the gift of foresight?”

“Foresight is a dangerous thing, Bilbo,” Gandalf says immediately, “Do not rely on it.”

With a shake of the head Bilbo brushes the chastening aside. “But she is worried. As are you. And if Thorin is involved, I will be drawn into it before long, too. So if you know anything, I would like to know, too.”

Gandalf takes a deep breath. “There is not much to know. I traveled south and Mordor is quiet – nothing stirs there. I was on my way to the tombs when I heard Azog was hunting Thorin and came here.”

And not a moment too late, Bilbo thinks. They could have need Gandalf earlier. “Will you stay with us from here on?”

The wizard shakes his head with an unhappy frown. “I’m afraid there are other things I must look after,” he says, “But I am sure you will do your best to protect the company in my place. They seem quite taken with you.”

Bilbo suddenly realizes Gandalf still does not know about his talent. A blush spreads over his face and he fumbles for words, but Gandalf just laughs. “Oh, you don’t need to tell me now, Bilbo. Rest for now, there will be time to talk later.”

*** 

The days at Beorn’s abode pass in a pleasant haze. Every morning one of the dwarfs will come and fetch him for breakfast and after that they head out to enjoy the sun. It’s warm enough for Bilbo to set aside his jacket and he can practically feel his body healing.

Dwalin spars with Fili and Kili most of the time. Sometimes Gloin joins them and on a few, rare occasions, Nori. The latter turns out to be a skilled, but dirty fighter. But even he is helpless against the reach of Bilbo’s powers. Instead of slipping from Dwalin’s reach, he suddenly finds himself hovering in midair, while the company around them bursts out laughing.

“Very amusing,” Nori grumbles, but his lips twitch upward.

Bilbo chuckles, when abruptly two arms wrap around him from behind. “Got you,” somebody whispers into his ear and he can’t help the flush that covers his face. His heart skips a beat and he instantly recalls that embarrassing discussion he had to have in his head - because a part of him seems to think that developing romantic notions on a potentially fatal quest is a grand idea. 

Thorin releases him a second later, but Bofur waggles his eyebrows. Bilbo doesn’t know whether to glance away awkwardly or sigh in exasperation: at least he’s not the only one getting ideas. Which in return, however, means that his own feelings are not a product of a foolish, romantic imagination - 

But imagining any romantic inclination on Thorin’s part still rings utterly absurd. 

“You should pay attention to what’s happening behind you,” Thorin announces loudly, almost cheerfully “Perhaps Dwalin could give you some pointers?”

And that is how Bilbo is drawn into the training routine. In the beginning he only sits on a rock, reaching out with his powers to help or hinder the dwarves, while they sometimes attempt to sneak up on him. In the course of training he realizes that his initial assessment was right – the magic ring does boost his powers. Touching it is enough – he doesn’t want to shock the dwarves by turning invisible, too, especially since he doesn’t yet know how that power works exactly.

The first time he holds onto the rings and Bombur tries to sneak up from behind, he accidentally throws the dwarf into a tree. Rattled, but unhurt Bombur climbs up, while Kili shouts something about overkill and Fili declares Bilbo obviously recovered. Only Beorn is not very happy to discover there is now one less tree in his garden.

Dwalin decides that this is the point at which Bilbo is supposed to try and learn how to handle his sword, too. At least the basics, he insists, and Bilbo finds it difficult to make a convincing counter-argument with several dwarves watching him expectantly. So he tries his best, though he knows he’s failing miserably.

In the evening he often shares a pipe with Thorin. Sitting on Beorn’s front porch while their companions turn raucous inside, watching the sun go down and listening to the cicadas makes Bilbo feel more content than watching over Hobbiton ever did. During those evenings he also is less troubled about these bothersome feelings - perhaps what his heart yearned for all along was a sense of deep, intimate friendship. Or perhaps that is what love is, another part rejoins and Bilbo simply exhales a nearly perfect smoke ring. Bothering about these troublesome notions is not worth it when before him the land lies open and beckoning and he is happier and feels freer than he ever did before. 

He wouldn’t mind if these days could last forever.

But he knows they must journey on. There is still a dragon waiting in the distant east.

“You do not have to come,” Thorin tells him apropos of nothing. Tonight, a frown mars the King’s face and he seems deep in thought.

“Beg your pardon?” Bilbo inquires, turning his eyes away from the pink glow of the sky.

Thorin sighs. “We will probably set out within the week. Oin says your injury is healing nicely, but the journey from here on will probably be too much.”

What then, Bilbo wonders, bemused, has he been training for with the others? He’s not going to let his friends march into trouble. Not when he just got them out of it in the goblin tunnels. “... Traveling home is unlikely to be much safer.”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, you should stay here longer. Once we’ve taken Erebor somebody could accompany you –“

“Master Dwarf,” Bilbo interrupts firmly, “Thorin.” At the sound of his name, something changes in Thorin’s eyes and Bilbo isn’t certain what. But he presses on, regardless. “I may not have signed that contract, but I will if you need me to. I’m as good as healed – Oin removed the stitches days ago. I won’t slow you down.”

“Your courage is admirable,” Thorin replies sternly, but his eyes flicker between Bilbo and the horizon, “But Azog will try to stop us. I would rather not repeat such a confrontation.”

He does not mean himself, as far as Bilbo can understand. The vendetta entwining Azog and Thorin means they will continue to challenge and hunt each other. This, however, is solely about Bilbo and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. Does Thorin still think him helpless? Or is this some other issue?

“As long as nobody gets behind me, I can hold my own,” Bilbo replies. And if he uses his magic ring to turn invisible, that should render him neatly out of harm’s way. “I have come this far, I will not turn around now.”

He had his chance in Rivendell and realized he did not want to go home.

Thorin sighs. “Very well. Though I do not understand why – the road from here on is likely to be even more perilous and you appear to be a rational person.”

Bilbo gives him a small smile. “Well, it’s not that irrational if you think about it. I... I would call you friends and isn’t it normal that friends only want the best for each other?”

“Then we are honored to have your friendship,” Thorin replies earnestly, “And shall endeavor to protect you from here on.”

He’s a bit too formal and stiff, Bilbo thinks, but the act doesn’t hide the shine to Thorin’s eyes and the expression of gentle happiness flickering on his lips. Probably he has not had many occasions to express these sentiments - too many betrayals, too many disappointments. So instead of protesting the protection, Bilbo beams at him and adores the way Thorin gives him a small, but honest smile in return. 

***

"I shall leave on the morrow," Gandalf tells them one night, when they are all seated around Beorn’s table. The sheep and dogs have already collected most of the plates, though Bombur is still happily munching on the spicy gruel.

"I have lingered here for too long, and you should make your plans as well." Gandalf casts a significant glance towards Thorin, though Bilbo feels guilt well up in his chest. If not for his injury the dwarves would have probably left already.

Balin pats his beard absentmindedly. "There is still time until Durin's day. Though the southern route ..."

"It's longer, but safest," Gloin chimes in, and Dwalin adds, "The northern route is out of question."

"Northern and southern route?" Bilbo questions sotto voce and Ori beckons him over. The young dwarf is swinging his feet and digs out a lovingly folded piece of parchment from his satchel.

"Mirkwood," Dori comments into Bilbo's general direction, "And how to get around it."

Recalling his maps back at home, Bilbo tilts his head. "Wasn't there an elven city there?"

Thorin's face darkens dramatically and Balin sighs. "Aye, laddie, there is. But they were no allies of Erebor and they will likely not let us pass. It is better to avoid that place." The dwarves seem to collectively shudder and Bilbo wishes for a history book since his knowledge of the split between Erebor and Mirkwood is hazy at best.

"Be that as it may," Gandalf interrupts the unhappy mutterings, "The southern and the northern route are being watched. It is unlikely you will make it through without being intercepted."

"And we still have to go around the Lake, anyway," Gloin adds, "We should take the northern route - we'll face whatever tries to stop us in between."

Balin frowns. “Going around the Lake will take time. And put us out in the open.”

“If you go north,” Beorn tells them, carrying a huge flask of ale with him, “Azog will find you. You cannot fight him with only fourteen.”

Several pairs of eyes shift to Bilbo, who frowns. Certainly, he has healed – and he should be able to hold his own in the fight. Yet Azog had had no trouble sneaking up on him. Even after training he is no brave and reckless warrior.

Thorin turns to Beorn. “It is risky,” he agrees heavily, “But we do not have a choice.”

Bilbo purses his lips. Considering the bad blood, going through Mirkwood is perhaps a bad idea. But it’s – as far as he can tell by looking at the map Ori spread on the table – the shortest way. The detour south is immense and while going north may not take as much time, Bilbo has heard bad things about the Grey Mountains.

Gandalf sighs. “Thranduil does not much care for what happens outside of the borders of his realm. If you stay on the old forest road, you ought to be able to pass without much trouble.”

“The old road deposits us too far south,” Gloin protests and gestures to the map, “North will take us straight to the mountain.”

Gandalf shakes his head minutely. “There is an old harbor at the end of the road. With some luck you will find a ship or two anchoring there.”

“We’d be sailing upstream,” Fili says.

“The Celduin’s currents in these regions are quite calm,” Gandalf answers.

It seems like the path through Mirkwood is their best choice after all, Bilbo thinks, even though the dwarves don’t appear to like it. Then again, he is utterly unfamiliar with this part of the world, so relying on a map and Gandalf’s word may not be sufficient.

“What if there’s no ship there?” Kili asks, glancing up from his bread.

“We build one,” Bofur replies with a shrug, “There’s wood enough.”

“I don’t like it,” Gloin declares, “If we go north, we know what we’re up against. Mirkwood –“

“Rumor says that wood has grown darker in recent years,” Balin adds, looking inquisitively toward Gandalf, “I do not know what dwells there, but I would not risk encountering an older evil.” Dwalin nods with his arms crossed before his chest.

“The Grey Mountains are impassable,” Gandalf declares fiercely, “You will find demons of the old world still dwell there – you should know that well enough.”

Bilbo shifts uncomfortably. An unfamiliar gleam lights Gandalf’s eyes, reminding everybody that the old codger act is but a façade. And what is murmured history among the dwarves may very well be something Gandalf remembers clearly.

Thorin returns the glare. “Of course we remember,” he answers in nearly a hiss, “But when it comes to that betrayer – “

“And you will not see a hair of him if you just stick to the path!” Gandalf exclaims and stands up. “You are free to take my advice or discard it, but I do hope to meet you alive and well at the mountain. The north is too dangerous, mark my word.”

He stomps out of the room and after a moment Bilbo decides to follow. Behind him, the dwarves explode into an animated discussion – but it’s not one he can help with.

“Where are you going?” he asks Gandalf.

“To pack,” the wizard mutters in response and makes no move to slow his step. Bilbo almost has to run to keep up.

“Yes, but – “

“Listen to me, I will meet you at the front gate of Erebor,” Gandalf tells him over his shoulder, “Until then, worry for yourself first.”

Slowly but certainly annoyance creeps through Bilbo’s veins. “Master Beorn,” Gandalf calls out, “I will need some supplies!”

From the inside Bilbo can hear a chair scraping across the floor. Gandalf stares out into the night with a deep frown on his face.

“You will come back?” Bilbo asks, “And meet us in Erebor?”

Gandalf draws himself from his thoughts. “Before the gate,” he tells Bilbo and his eyes clear, “Wait for me.”

Bilbo blinks. Before he can phrase a question, Beorn has arrived and Gandalf begins to rattle of a list of supplies he needs. Bilbo is left standing near one of the house’s vast windows, gazing thoughtfully outside. The night is clear and he can make out the same constellations as those he sees at home. But those feel different – the air is fresher, the starlight brighter.

And yet he wonders what route the dwarves have decided on. Every option makes him uneasy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company leaves Rivendell and enters Mirkwood. Their journey does not go particularly well and then they run into the spiders. And then something else shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). An [amazing banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) has been made by the lovely [penumbriafics](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/) and more art shall follow soon! 
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Now, **warnings** : Canon-typical violence ahead in this chapter.

The company of Thorin Oakenshield – now that Bilbo has signed a reduced form of the contract – numbering fourteen sets out from Beorn’s abode six days after Gandalf. The day is faintly overcast and Bilbo watches his friends’ faces fall further when Beorn warns them to let his ponies return once they reach the old forest road.

In the end, Balin had deemed the road southerly enough to eschew the elves. Thorin remains unhappy, but – as he told Bilbo in the quiet of one evening – he has traveled through the Grey Mountains and Gandalf’s warnings have not been excessive.

“Something lurks there,” Thorin had said, eyes fixed on an invisible point in the distance, “The entire place feels dead and deserted. Few travelers have ever lived to tell the tale of crossing these mountains and those that did were forever changed.”

He takes a deep pull from his pipe – Thorin has grown to like Bilbo’s Longbottom Leaf. “We stuck to the outskirts and while we did not see anything – you could feel it. Going near those mountains is folly.”

Bilbo himself leans back. “Well,” he says after a moment, “We’re going to take on a dragon. Some would call that folly.”

Thorin chuckles. “Indeed, some would.” And then he turns to look at Bilbo. “Would you?”

It must be the setting sun casting that strange glow into Thorin’s eyes, and Bilbo’s treacherous heart skips a beat. He’s never denied that Thorin’s eyes are breath-taking and that the King is attractive, but seeing that small, gentle smile so close makes his hands tremble.

“I did, I believe,” Bilbo manages to stammer out, “In Bag End… But…” A very, very distant memory raises its head. Something about a plan, and Gandalf did mention an object. Which is why he originally was supposed to sign on as a burglar.

Thorin does not notice the direction in which Bilbo’s thoughts have started spinning. “You have changed since then,” Thorin says, and then shakes his head, “Or maybe not. I may have merely been too blind to see.”

Bilbo feels a blush spreading over his cheeks, but energetically pushes all wandering thoughts aside. “Perhaps, maybe,” he shrugs, “Though I think Gandalf mentioned a plan? Something for which you needed a burglar?”

Thorin’s face returns to its usual, solemn expression and Bilbo digs into his pocket for the remaining pipe weed.

“Yes,” Thorin says eventually, “In the mountain there is, well, used to be, a stone. A very special gem that was found in the days of my grandfather’s reign. He declared it a symbol of his rule and the other dwarves pledged loyalty to it.” Thorin swallows. “Gandalf believes that with the stone I can call upon the armies of all dwarven kingdoms and confront Smaug.”

“You do not?” Bilbo inquires carefully.

Thorin frowns. “I … I saw what happened when Smaug attacked. Dwarven warriors mattered nothing to him.” He shakes his head, lost in distant, troubling memories. “Perhaps we would stand a better chance if we prepared, but I do hope the dragon is dead.”

Bilbo nods thoughtfully and offers Thorin the remainder of his pipe weed, before slipping his hand back into his pocket. From his books he knows that the dwarves have taken on dragons and won – but he cannot imagine those battles to not have incurred grievous losses.

“But if he lives,” Bilbo concludes, “Then I will have to steal that stone.”

He doesn’t know if the revelation frightens him. The idea that Gandalf and Thorin intended to send him up against a dragon makes him nauseous. And yet, with his magic ring, he may stand a chance. Bilbo’s fingers brush past the gold band in his pocket, feeling it hum with power.

Next to him, Thorin sighs heavily. “You are not contracted as a burglar. When we reach the mountain, we shall decide how to proceed.”

First they must get there.

***

Mirkwood does not offer space for private conversations. Within a few days, even Bofur and Fili and Kili have grown silent. The entire forest feels gloomy and suffocating. No wind shifts the trees, no birds flit through the undergrowth. Instead Bilbo has to squint in the dim light to make out the cracked tiles of the old forest road – now barely more than a winding path – between mud and roots. He’s never walked over ground that felt so dead in his entire life. And if the trees did not carry leaves he would have deemed them utterly lifeless.

Claustrophobia settles in. 

Their campfires do little to dispel the nightly darkness and the forest seems to swallow every cheerful song and sound just after they have fallen from their speaker’s lips. Bilbo feels tension seeping in – Dwalin is nervous, Nori jumpy. Bifur keeps his spear at the ready and even Oin rests a hand on the dagger attached to his belt.

The deeper they penetrate into the forest, the more it feels as if the road is trying to disappear. More than once Bilbo ends up shifting dirt with his power or dislodging a root to the angry groaning of ancient wood in order to find out just where the ruin of a road vanished to. Their speed – initially quite quick – begins to drop.

And at one point Bilbo notices he has stopped counting how many nights they have been in this forest. Bofur, when asked, is equally downtrodden. “I don’t know, laddie, but it’s too long,” he replies. “Far too long. Feels like a lifetime, really.”

“And it’s going to be a lifetime if we’re not going to watch ourselves,” Gloin grumbles and dumps down the large sack with their provisions. “Look, we’re beginning to run out. Just how far do we still have to go?”

It’s not a question anybody can answer. So they decide to cut down to two meals a day, first. Then one. The forest continues and continues and half of the time Bilbo now only thoughtlessly follows the dwarf before him while his stomach rolls with hunger. Something begins to gnaw at his chest – devouring not just flesh, but his soul.

Wearily, he drags himself on. Fili comments on his terrible pallor, but as Bilbo studies him he finds his own cheekbones have grown sharper. Bofur tightens his belt and now they all stare longingly after the food that is packed away each night. But the dwindling amounts make Bilbo nervous. If they’re not anywhere near the end of the forest they will have to go on hungry. There is no game in this woods and no edible roots or berries either.

Instead they find webs. Giant, silvery spider webs stretching between the trees and wrapping around them, displaying yet another ghastly layer of danger in this forest. The notion that elves could voluntarily live here makes Bilbo snort now. What kind of elf, he wonders, would enjoy a cursed forest such as this? He understands why Thorin did not want to meet them and almost regrets not having backed the northern route.

For days he begins to feel adrift. Before his eyes the silver of the webs blurs together with the odd shades of the mushrooms lining the path. His constantly empty stomach fades into the background and he merely stumbles along. It’s easier like this – he can just ignore Thorin’s shortening temper and the ever terser replies from Gloin. Even Bofur loses his good cheer entirely.

“We can’t go on like this,” Bombur whines one afternoon, “We need food! A good rest!”

“Yes, we all do,” Dwalin replies harshly, “Look around you! Do you see an inn somewhere?”

“Perhaps the elves could help us?” Kili asks quietly. He has grown pale and withdrawn during their long hike, and Bilbo’s chest tightens in concern.

Thorin’s reaction is immediate and completely wordless. He turns away from his nephew and nobody misses the disgust on his face. “Uncle!” Fili protests and Bilbo wants to join him, if only his head would stop spinning.

High above them something makes the trees shudder.

“… should have gone north!” Gloin yells, “We should never have –“

A thud interrupts him. Something heavy drops to the forest floor just behind them. Bilbo’s heart hitches and suddenly his mind is clear. In the blink of an eye he’s whirled around, power at the ready and come to face with a black, giant-

“Spiders!” Dwalin shouts, the same time that Thorin cries “Du bekâr!”

Bilbo reaches out, because the spider is too close and too big and his heart is in his throat, but before he can even get a grip on the monster, Bifur’s spear embeds itself in its head. The dwarf exclaims something in Khuzdul, and Bilbo realizes that all around them the canopy is rustling and moving.

And suddenly the forest is alive with hissing.

His blood runs cold, just as Kili fires an arrow upward. A high-pitched shriek and Dori has to jump aside to not get squashed by the falling body. Another spider drops from the tree to their right and Dwalin flings himself at it with a roar, but two more follow and Bilbo catches Oin and Gloin tackle one spider together while Fili ducks a thin leg and slams a dagger home.

Bilbo stumbles forward, foot catching on a root. There’s a shadow above him and he flings himself aside, just as a giant stinger pierces the air where he’s just been. With cold sweat beading his back Bilbo reaches out with his power, wraps those familiar tendrils around the spider and smashes the beast as hard against the ground as he can.

It stays still and he’s gasping for air, the almost-healed wound on his chest burning and that spot under his heart thrums. A hiss behind him and without thinking he reaches out and flings the spider away. The heavy body crashes against a tree, shattering the trunk and Nori has to duck a falling branch. Bilbo’s too out of breath to call out apologies, but then another spider falls with a horrible screech from the crumbling tree and Nori only needs to stick his dagger through its neck.

Right, weapon, Bilbo thinks and fumbles for his blade with shaky hands. Better be prepared, or so Dwalin had told him during practice. A lucky hit might just be enough –

A crash nearby has him jump and lose hold of the hilt, and there is Bofur fighting two spiders at once and he may just be outdone, when Ori joins the fray and actually tackles the second spider. But he’s too light and doesn’t have enough strength; Bilbo realizes just when Dori yells “Ori!”, though he is too far away.

Bilbo reaches out and just grabs hold of one leg and pulls as hard as he can. With a stomach-turning squelching noise the leg separates from the body, the spider howls and collapses to the ground and that moment is enough for Ori to bury his small axe in its head. Bilbo still has a hold of the separated limb and even as nausea rises, he turns it into a projectile and shoves it forcefully through a descending spider’s underbelly, pinning it to the tree.

“Watch out!” Fili shouts and from the corner of his eye Bilbo sees Balin dodge another spider. They just keep coming and coming and Bilbo’s sweat-soaked already. The power in his veins is a steady throb, but his body trembles. Shaky fingers brush against the cold metal in his coat pocket.

Perhaps invisibility will give them the edge they need, he thinks.

With a wave of his arm he bowls over two spiders advancing on Dwalin, who leaps over their bodies. His axe describes an elegant arc and when he lands those bodies twitch no longer. Nearby, Thorin twirls past another beast, his blade not once missing its mark. The ground around them has grown sticky with blood and Bilbo is glad for the hardened soles of his feet.

He takes a deep breath and slips on the ring. Immediately the world fades into greyscale and the edges blur horribly. A painful throb runs down his spine, but he ignores it. Instead he flings out his power at another spider trying to creep up on Kili from above. The young archer jumps when the body hits the ground next to him, but immediately fires the next arrow at another spider.

Bilbo realizes that he’s almost out. There must be more arrows among their supply pack, but that lays several paces away from them, abandoned with their other packs the moment the battle started. Are the spiders moving them on purpose, Bilbo wonders with a throb of fear running through his chest, are they planning to drive them off the path?

“Nasty, nasty!” something hisses behind him and Bilbo almost screams. When he whirls around he finds a spider looking past him, too close and ugly and his heart drops because it must see him – but then the spider brushes past him, not more than a finger’s breadth away.

So the ring is working, but –

“Kill them!” he hears another hiss and realizes there are dozens of voices hissing around him, “Kill them! Kill them! Eat them! Nasty dwarves! Kill them!”

Ice runs through his veins. Those – the spiders are talking – and he finds himself frozen to the spot with horror while Balin whirls past him, dispatching another spider. Thorin beheads one, before turning and stopping abruptly.

“There’s- “

“Elves!” Dwalin shouts. An arrow brushes just past him and slams into a spider’s head. Bilbo hovers, fingertips tingling with power. Suddenly there are three elves, then five, then nine – the canopy is alive with spiders and elves and he hears an order shouted in clear Sindarin and hadn’t Gandalf told them they wouldn’t see elves in these parts?

His head is spinning and the whispers increase in volume, but these he does not understand. A foreign warmth brushes past his face, though he wipes away the sweat running into his eyes. The world blurs and twists and the elves are bright in his vision, almost painfully so. They twist and leap and their arrows always, always find their mark.

For a moment it’s just a chaotic, all-out melee. Then Bilbo realizes the elves are only attacking the spiders.  His heart shudders with relief, just as the whispering grows even more insistent. A faint red shine slides over his vision.

And abruptly everything feels wrong.

This time he isn’t the only one that notices. A shriek comes from the spiders and suddenly they flee. As fast as they can, they disappear back into the trees, leaving behind only the dead and dying carcasses.

“Coming, coming, he’s here, he’s come…” Bilbo hears their hisses echo while another voice seems to grow louder just next to his ear. But the air there is empty and he watches the elves warily relax just as the dwarves watch the spiders retreat with baited breath.

Something evil lies in the air.

“Wraith!” one of the elves exclaims in common and Bilbo suddenly sees it.

Wrapped in black rags fluttering in an invisible breeze, the creature seems to hover above the ground, half translucent, half real. The world is cold and grey and the whispers incredibly loud. Sweat beads on Bilbo’s hands and a terrified silence fills the wood as the creature advances.

The ring slips from his finger and the world jumps into focus again. The wraith is headed straight for him, Bilbo realizes abruptly and his knees give out. His fingers find the cool metal of the ring, but he just knows it will not help him, knows that even invisible that creature could see him.

Knows that his power will not be enough.

One of the elves shouts something, their voice not as calm. Arrows whistle, but they pass right through the wraith. Its face is hidden under the folds of a black hood, but Bilbo feels it crowing in triumph.

The wraith is but ten steps from him and Bilbo flings out an arm, helplessly trying to enfold the wraith in his power. But it’s like grasping fog, slipping through his grasp on the edges and he cannot stop it.

Cannot make himself move.

This is what the old tales always warned him of; a part of Bilbo’s mind thinks hysterically, that was why they were warned not to go to the barrow downs. These creatures – wraiths – they are held together by a darker witchcraft than any hobbit can hope to comprehend. The fate of those that dare to face them is not to be –

A small noise escapes his throat and suddenly, with a furious roar, Thorin is there. Orcrist cuts through the air with a hiss and to Bilbo’s utter shock sinks deep into the wraith’s shoulder.  The wraith releases a screech so loud and angry they all flinch and extends a skeletal hand toward Thorin.

“Oakenshield,” it hisses, but its edges are already dissolving and Thorin only tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. Orcrist gleams like a star in the night sky and Bilbo can sense it hum with the magic of bygone ages. The wraith shatters into nothing, the shadow evaporates and Bilbo can finally breathe again.

But it’s too much and his heart flutters in protest and a fierce headache begins to throb behind his temples. Involuntarily he closes his eyes and slumps over.

“Bilbo, oi, Bilbo!” Kili shouts, but Thorin is already there, crouching next to Bilbo and holding him up by the shoulder. He hears somebody else run over, heavier footsteps and the clinking of weapons being set down.

In the next moment the elves stir and weapons are being picked up again.

“What was that?” Ori asks, bewildered, while Bilbo clutches onto Thorin’s familiar furs. His entire body is trembling and he doesn’t even understand why. It’s as if some stain  of the wraith still lingers, the fear having slid into his bones.

“A wraith,” Balin answers gravely, “Something that shouldn’t exist.”

“Not just any wraith,” a new voice chimes in and from his blurry vision Bilbo can see a tall, blond figure make its way over toward them. “This one was looking for something, I believe.” He rests a hand on the dagger strapped to his side. “Who are you?” he inquires just as another voice interrupts with a short “Legolas!”

Thorin keeps his hands on Bilbo, but he can tell by the sudden tension that both parties are readying themselves for attack.

“Merchants,” Balin speaks up, raising his hands in a disarming manner, “Headed to the Iron Hills.”

Legolas frowns, but relaxes his stance ever so slightly. “There is no need for violence,” Balin adds, “We were simply passing through.”

A red-haired elf joins Legolas and gestures at him to stand down. She takes in the bedraggled group of dwarves and the lone hobbit with a long, contemplative glance. “Why were you passing through here?”

“It’s the shortest route,” Gloin mutters, though a hand on his arm from Oin keeps him from moving. There is a long, ugly cut running down the side of Gloin’s face and Bilbo finally finds the strength to sit up under his own power.

“Are you alright?” Thorin asks him quietly, and Bilbo nods. There’s nothing wrong with him – neither the spiders nor the wraith even touched him. He doesn’t quite understand what rattled him so.

“The ways around the forest are not safe,” Balin replies evenly, “The north is nigh impassable and the south being watched. We deemed the forest our best option.”

“You are the reason for the orcs in the south?” Legolas asks. His companion gives him a sharp glance.

Balin shrugs. “Perhaps. Orcs have trailed us all across the Misty Mountains.”

“Quite persistent,” the red-haired elf comments. There is a sharp glint in her eyes and Bilbo suddenly wonders how much worse the day can still turn. For now the fight is over, but nobody has truly set aside their weapons.

With a heavy breath he reaches for his power and finds it humming warmly in his chest. His mind is frazzled, but should push come to shove – Thorin notices his tension and gently presses a hand onto his shoulder. He nods to Balin, who is warming to his role.

“A vendetta, I’m afraid,” Balin offers easily, “We had the displeasure of meeting those before and dispatched apparently one of their leaders. Ever since then they have been following us.”

The red-haired elf does not look entirely convinced. “A harrowing journey,” she comments, “Especially with the hundreds of orcs amassing in the south. You must have dispatched a truly fearsome character.”

Before Balin can say anything, Kili speaks up. “So many? In the south? Weren’t the rumors about something shady going on at Dol Guldur?”

The elves exchange a silent look between each other, and Legolas replies stiffly: “We suspect so. You have nothing to do with it?”

Kili, Balin, Ori, Nori, Dori, Bofur, Bombur and even Balin shake their head emphatically.

The red-head’s lips twitch. “Then why did a wraith seek you out? And why is a hobbit traveling with you?”

Bilbo finds all gazes focused on him and draws himself up taller. Hides his trembling fingers in the pockets of his threadbare coat. Searches for a plausible answer, and only manages to come up with:  “Trade.”

Both elves look skeptical. But Bilbo knows expanding his answer now will only render it less credible. So he swallows and tries to calm his frantically beating heart.

“Let me have a look at you, laddie,” Oin pronounces as he abruptly shoves himself into Bilbo’s vision, “You’re looking like death warmed over. Is your wound hurting you?”

Bilbo shakes his head. A faint ache echoes through his chest, but it’s no true pain, just a reminder that his body is still recovering. Oin harrumphs and reaches for Bilbo’s collar. The hobbit wants to protest instinctively, but Oin merely tugs the collar down so he can have a short look at the scar.

“Not bleeding,” he pronounces and sits back, obviously content to postpone any closer examination to a later point of time. In the background Bilbo catches the last of Legolas words: “…back, Tauriel.”

The red-haired elf purses her lips. Her reply in Sindarin is too fast for Bilbo to understand, but she turns back to Balin. “Mirkwood is closed to travelers,” she announces, “By the King’s command.”

Balin nods thoughtfully. “With all due respect, the old forest road lies outside of the borders of his realm.”

Legolas hisses something, but Tauriel shakes her head decisively. “Very well, but warn your kin – the old forest road is not safe to travel.”

“We noticed,” Fili quips dryly and saunters up next to Balin. “Where did they come from? They do look quite creepy.”

At this point Bilbo is surprised that Thorin still lingers at his side. He feels stable and no longer needs to lean against him – Thorin must have noticed. Then why is he leaving the speaking to others?

“Dol Guldur,” Legolas says at the same time that Tauriel declares “This is none of your concern.” They exchange another look and Bilbo realizes that not all elves are creatures of limitless grace and elegance.

And Thorin, he notices, is grinding his teeth and hiding his face. Bilbo abruptly understands – it is already nearly miraculous the elves have not discerned their true purpose. But if they get a good look at Thorin, they may very likely recognize him.

“Spiders and orcs in one place?” Bofur comments, “My, that does not sound good. Perhaps you should check it out? I mean, it’s pretty close to your kingdom, after all.”

Tauriel stiffens and in a split second Legolas has drawn his bow and notched an arrow. “Yes. You could be our decoy. They just love dwarves, I heard.”

“Please,” Balin interrupts, “No offense was intended. And if you don’t mind, we need to be on our way. I’d rather leave this place behind before we camp for the night.”

This earns him some murmurs in agreement. Oin and Dori shuffle over to where they dropped their remaining gear. Bilbo’s head gives a nasty throb, and before he knows what is happening Thorin has slipped a hand underneath his knees and is lifting him.

For a moment the world spins madly, and then Bilbo finds himself held securely. A mad blush spreads over his face, but he’s too dazed to protest. When it comes down to it, he isn’t certain his legs can carry him, either.

The elves still appear undecided on whether or not to let them go. But Bilbo thinks he sees some shapes disappear into the trees. Or it may be his flickering vision. There is a giant hole in his stomach and somehow he cannot make himself concentrate. On the edges, the world begins to fray.

Only from a great distance can he hear Bombur clear his throat.

“Actually,” the still largest member of their group – though Mirkwood has even forced him to tighten his belt – speaks up, “Would you have some provisions for us?”

Bilbo does not hear the reply. His world grows dark. At least this time he feels warm and safe and comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Err, [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)?


	11. Laketown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company reaches Laketown and stops to restock and recover. This time, Bilbo and Thorin truly grow closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings ahead. Enjoy!

Bilbo wakes to the sensation of swaying gently. For a moment it seems to be an even, lulling movement and he is about to close his eyes again. Then his head bumps into something solid. He frowns and his head collides with the object again.

Furthermore, he realizes he’s upside down, something hard is digging uncomfortably into his stomach and he can’t quite stop a grunt from escaping him when his head meets the object yet again. He passed out, his mind helpfully recalls, in the middle of a very uncomfortable confrontation. Perhaps the elves have taken them hostage?

But then he manages to pry his eyes open, just as he is shifted. A disorienting moment later and he is sitting on the ground, head spinning, but with his vision clearing. Thirteen concerned dwarves stare expectantly at him.

In the background he catches Óin berate Dwalin: “… not with the head down. It’s known to cause the oddest things in men and – “

Dwalin stands stiff and straight. “Well, you could have always asked the weed-eaters for help.”

Óin huffs, while Kíli says something Bilbo doesn’t catch, but it does make both Dwalin and Óin roll their eyes.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks nearby, “Bilbo?”

He manages to slowly turn his head and sees Fíli holding him up by the shoulders. “Yes?” he manages and realizes his throat is terribly dry, “What –“

“Are you alright?” Ori inquires from next to Fíli. Both look worried, and even Bofur purses his lips in concern.

Bilbo thinks he should be. At least he doesn’t remember being hit with anything. Or being run through. Thorin warded off the wraith, after all. A shudder runs down his spine. Something did not feel natural about it, something that even now is making his hair stand on end.

“I, I think so?” he replies uneasily, “I’m afraid I don’t remember much.”

“Well, you did pass out,” Dori offers exasperatedly, “So you wouldn’t remember.”

Bilbo blinks and wonders how much time has passed. He knows his own feelings on the matter may be off, but his body still feels worn-out and sore, so perhaps he may not have missed four days again. “What happened?” he asks.

Fíli’s lips quirk. “Well, not much. What you missed was an almost-fight when the elves wanted to take us back to their King.”

Dori shakes his head, while Ori tilts his. “They were disturbed by the wraith. I think everybody was. And they did help when you passed out.”

“Did they?” Bilbo asks, surprised. He can remember the initial tension between their two groups. An almost-confrontation does not sound unreasonable.

“It was a good thing, probably,” Nori adds from where he leans against a tree trunk. It’s less massive than the trees in the middle of Mirkwood had been. Bilbo also realizes that there is a soft breeze tickling his face and he can hear birds singing. The air feels lighter, too.

“You looked pretty dead and the elves were mumbling something about a shadow on you or so,” Nori adds and Bilbo realizes that contrary to his relaxed posture there is a sharp glint in Nori’s eyes, “They were fairly curious why the wraith went straight for you.  And I have to admit, I have been wondering about the same thing.”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. For a moment his mind spirals into several directions – are his powers evil after all, do they attract evil, did he do something wrong? Before he can say anything, Ori weights in: “The wraith may have sensed Bilbo’s power and gone for him in order to eliminate him first.”

His power had not even managed to touch the wraith, Bilbo recalls with a shudder. If Thorin had not interfered –

“In which case our burglar truly needs to work on his reaction time,” Nori comments with a raised eyebrow. He must guess that Bilbo’s powers failed, Bilbo thinks. But he can’t bring his mouth to work and Dori cuts the conversation short with a shake of his head.

“Whatever. You can bother Master Baggins later – look at him, does he look up for your interrogation? Go and get some food from Bombur.”

Bombur is glad to open up the large sack of provisions he is carrying and the company decides to take a short break. Thorin’s expression darkens, but Balin pats his back. “It’s not far to the harbor. We will still get there before nightfall.”

***

The sun is setting when they reach the old harbor. In truth it’s more of a crumbling quay with two ruins flanking it. But Bilbo barely pays them any attention because against the darkening sky in the east, he gets his first look at the Lonely Mountain.

Snow-capped and silent it towers on the distant end of the Long Lake. Its presence is frightening and elevating, harsh and majestic and it sends a shiver down Bilbo’s spine. When he left Bag End it never occurred to him he may truly see it one day. Now he is here – their journey has almost reached its end.

“It’s amazing,” Kíli chimes in from behind.

“Our home,” Fíli adds with a nod. Thorin steps past him with a pat on the shoulder. “Indeed.”

“Beautiful as it ever was,” Balin says reverently.

Bilbo only notices his heart is pounding when Thorin comes to a stop right next to him. “Once,” says the King without a crown, “Those slopes were covered in deep green. Pine trees clung to each rock and fields surrounded Dale. There were boats upon boats sailing up the river to trade with Laketown and Dale.”

Beyond the mountain, the first stars grow visible and Bilbo shudders. Before them the lake lies undisturbed and except for the sounds of nature all is silent. But he can imagine – can almost see the picture Thorin’s words paint.

“From here,” Thorin continues and gestures at the water before them, “You would have seen the lights of Dale on the hills before Erebor. And Laketown would always be busy no matter the hour. When I was still young they even used to put lights along the shores so sailors could navigate the lake at night, too.

“But those days are long gone,” Thorin concludes and Bilbo thinks that these times perhaps ended even before Smaug came.

“Well,” he hears himself say, “Perhaps they may return soon.”

Thorin gives him a smile. “You have a kind heart, indeed. But I hope for the same.”

And regardless of what Gandalf may have plotted, or of what shifting in the world Galadriel may have sensed – in this moment Bilbo knows he is right to help Thorin simply for who he is and what he intends. Whatever he can do, Bilbo tells himself, he will do. Because the dwarves have suffered long enough.

“Thorin,” Dwalin calls from where the dwarves are trying their best to get one of the rotting boats back into shape, “Come and take a look at this.”

With a nod Thorin takes his leave and Bilbo sighs. The sun is but a pink glow on the western sky and the air begins to grow cold. Summer has started to wane during their passage to Mirkwood. And now that they are turning northeast, the first cold days will be upon them soon.

While still in in Mirkwood Bilbo had noticed the days growing shorter. He had thought it a trick of the never-ending, cursed forest. But, as it turns out, he has not been wrong. It feels strange – a part of him still cannot grasp he left his home behind and has traveled so far.

The entire adventure has been a whirlwind and only now, with Erebor in view, Bilbo realizes that he has come farther than probably any hobbit before.

Which does not make him eye the patched boat the dwarves push into the water with any less suspicion. He may possess a strange ability and a magic ring, but he still dislikes water as much as the next hobbit.

“Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” Bofur assures him cheerfully, “Dwarf-craft, you know.”

Bilbo purses his lips. He trusts his friends. But his distrust of water may just be stronger. In the end, though, he knows that there is no other way. The shore of the lake is unpassable in places and finding a path will take too long.

***

In spite of his fears the boat ride is smooth. Balin remembers enough of the currents to guide them onto one that will carry them toward their goal through the night. Though Bilbo is nervous first, he still is terribly exhausted and drifts off soon.

The next morning dawns grey and cold. A thick fog has rolled in during the night and Bilbo thankfully burrows deeper into the blanket he mysteriously found himself buried under. Noticing his movement, Bifur pushes a loaf of bread toward him.

“We should stock up on supplies,” Balin in saying to Thorin. Both keep their eyes fixed on the water, though in the fog nothing is visible. Bilbo tries not to think about it too much.

“We’re making good time and a short stop in Laketown won’t set us back at this point,” Balin adds. The boat sways softly and with a grunt Gloin reaches for one of the oars Bilbo heretofore has failed to notice.

Thorin looks at his company with a contemplative frown. Bilbo can almost sense how direly he longs to get to Erebor as soon as possible. And yet according to the map they will have to wait for Durin’s day.

“We will need food, at least,” Oin ads and then nods toward Bilbo, “Warmer clothes won’t go amiss, either.”

Thorin still seems unconvinced and Dwalin crosses his arms. “We won’t be welcome there. They’ve never liked dwarves.”

“We’ll just pretend to be merchants,” Fíli adds with a shrug, “The elves believed us, after all. And it’s not as if there were any other places to stock up nearby.”

“I doubt they believed us,” Thorin replies, “And by now their King will know.”

“He will guess our purpose,” Dwalin adds sharply, “If he finds out who you are he might try to cut us of.”

“If he dares to leave that forest,” Gloin says, “Doesn’t seem too interested in the world outside. Except for who crosses that forest. But that spider infestation – well, maybe he thinks they’re cute.”

Kíli clears his throat. “They were actually on a scouting mission to find out where the spiders came from.”

“Who?” Gloin echoes and Fíli gives his brother a curious glance.

“The elves,” Kíli replies with a shrug, “They didn’t even know we were there, they just followed the spiders.”

“And how do you know that?” Gloin inquires with a raised eyebrow. The entire company looks at Kíli.

The young dwarf looks nonplussed. “I asked.”

Dwalin rolls his eyes and Gloin sighs heavily. Bilbo almost wants to smile at the dwarves’ exasperation – seeing Kíli ignore a centuries-old hatred is heart-warming, but these impressions, he knows, are superficial. The animosity between dwarves and elves runs deep.

They continue to glide through an eerily silent fog and Bilbo is glad his friends appear resilient against the strange atmosphere. He’s never liked being on a boat. And even though he may be able to lift this boat with his power – he wouldn’t know where to direct it.

“We may as well stop in Laketown,” Thorin decrees, “I do not trust Thranduil to not try and stop us. I we can win over the Lakemen, it may deter the elves.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s back. Balin frowns. “They may not –“

Thorin shakes his head. “Laketown is poor and will not flourish while the dragon lives. They fear him, yes, and we will face opposition. But more than they fear him they wish Smaug gone.”

It’s a cold, cold calculation and Bilbo draws the blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders. Next to him, Ori shifts nervously, though the other dwarves nod in agreement.

***

They reach Laketown around noon. If the fog has lifted, Bilbo hasn’t noticed – the shore remains firmly hidden in the rolling grey fog and the town emerges from it like a set of black ruins. Only up close he spies the movement and hears the sounds of daily life.

The gatekeeper is flabbergasted at the presence and, lacking any idea of what to do, calls for the guard. While they wait for them to arrive, Bilbo takes a look around. The idea of building a town on stilts appears ridiculous to him and he wonders how often those stilts have already collapsed. He understands, logistically, the importance of harbors, but that would not justify a town in the lake. Or perhaps that is merely his discomfort speaking.

Laketown may have once been a thriving trading port, though now it seems to barely scrape by. Even the fog cannot be solely responsible for the faded colors and prevalence of dull greys and browns. The guards’ uniforms too have seen better days, Bilbo thinks when they finally arrive.

The head of the guard – a heavy-set man called Breda – turns up his nose at them at first. Bilbo is content to stay huddled between Kíli and Ori, while Gloin, Balin and Thorin haggle and threat their passage. Dwalin stands silently in the background, but even Breda looks intimidated by him.

Unsurprisingly so, Bilbo concludes. The men following Breda have a defeated, hungry look to them and the weapons they carry look rusty. He doubts they are skilled fighters.

“Then we will meet the Master tonight,” Thorin replies roughly, “And he may ask us himself.”

“I cannot…” Breda attempts, but Balin interrupts him. 

“We are traders. We paid the passage fee, we will pay the mooring fee and we are more than capable of paying for food and shelter. Is or is Laketown not a trading port?”

Breda grimaces unhappily. But in the end he allows them passage.

“Will we go and meet the Master?” Kíli asks while Dori and Bifur navigate the boat down the narrowing channels.

Balin sighs. “We have to if we want to win them over.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very nice man,” Fíli says contemplatively, studying the shoddily repaired buildings and the people they pass. Most wear several layers of worn clothes to keep out the damp and the cold. It may be the weather, but the entire town looks miserable and poor.

The market that Bilbo accompanies Bombur, Dori, Ori and Oin to reinforces that impression. There are not many wares on offer and the traders keep fishing for exorbitant prices. However, Bilbo’s small purse with coins from Bree ends up buying two coats and fabric for a third. It’s not the nominal value of the coins, he learns, but the metal they’re made of. Since Erebor is no longer supplying Laketown, the town subsists on their left-overs. But those are never enough.

By the time they meet back up with Balin and Gloin news of their arrival has spread and a small crowd has begun to follow them. Bilbo feels more uncomfortable with every step he takes – there is something in those eyes turned their way – a plea and hope and desperation at the same time. He is rather glad to hear Balin and Gloin have managed to procure a townhouse for them for the night. Sturdy as their boat is, it does not offer privacy and Bilbo will be glad to get out of the damp.

He retreats into the room he is given quickly. After Mirkwood his body yet feels weak and he is asleep within moment.

When he wakes the sun has set, but the fog lingers. Bilbo pulls aside the curtain of his window and sees a sea of blurred lights from the other houses and the boat below. Footsteps echo on the wooden walkways framing the narrow channels and doubling as streets. Somewhere in the distance somebody hums a sad tune.

It's a dreary night, Bilbo thinks. He would just climb back into the oversized bed, but his stomach growls. Shrugging his new coat on, Bilbo wanders downstairs. Bombur hustles around in the tiny kitchen, while Ori, Dori and Oin are sitting around the table. Bifur stands next to the door, his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

"Bilbo," Ori greets him with a smile, "How are you feeling?" His journal is spread open before him and Bilbo spies the vague outlines of a sketch, though he cannot yet discern what it will portray.

The hobbit shrugs, while Bombur comes over with a steaming plate. "Alright, I guess." He's still exhausted, but food will help. He longs for warmth and sunlight, too, but those feel rather out of reach.

Bombur sets the plate down before him. "We saved you something," he tells the hobbit with a small smile and Bilbo inclines his head gratefully.

"You still look peaky," Dori judges with a small frown.

"Aye," Oin agrees and leans closer, "Lots of food and an early night, I'd say. If you're not better tomorrow, come to me."

Bilbo nods obediently and hides a small smile behind his spoon. To think he thought the dwarves rude at first - half of his relations don't treat him nearly so nicely. "This is very nice," he comments after the first sip of warm soup hits his belly and he can feel the warmth begin to spread, "Where are the others?"

Dori nods toward the door. "Meeting with the Master of the town."

"They all went?" Bilbo echoes curiously.

"Well, Thorin obviously went, and Fíli and Kíli had to come too. Balin and Gloin then had to go along to keep them in check, and Dwalin wouldn't let them out of his sight, anyway," Dori explains.

"And Bofur and Nori went to find a tavern," Ori chimes in without looking up from his sketchbook. Dori frowns.

Bilbo smiles into his soup. It's nice to have a bit of normality after the madness of their journey so far. If he felt better, he would join them - to forget about what awaits them. Just to not think about what lies at the end of the road for one night.

Then again, sleep won't be too bad either.

After he's done with the soup Bombur magics a few pieces of cut bread and even some roast from the kitchen. It's almost too much for his stomach, but Bilbo eats with gusto, because there is no telling when they will have an opportunity again.

A comfortable silence settles around them. Bombur is busy in the kitchen and Ori with his sketches. Dori gets out a sewing set while Oin wanders over to another table and begins grinding herbs. Bilbo leans back and thinks he would have liked more evenings like this. It almost reminds him of the quiet rainy nights when his parents were still alive - with all of them hidden behind their favorite books while the rain pattered against the window pane.

At first Bilbo doesn't notice the uptick in voices on the outside. Then they draw closer, he understands the words, and sits up straight.

"... Kill us all!" somebody shouts.

They exchange uneasy looks. Bifur reaches for his spear and Dori sets aside his sewing.

"...concern," and that is Balin and his voice sounds sharp and decisive. Bilbo gulps.

"It is our concern!" the other man protests angrily, "When you are planning to wake a slumbering dragon, that is very much our concern!"

"And how would you know Smaug sleeps?" Fíli shouts, "Have you perhaps been to the mountain? Did you want to take our peoples treasure for yourself?"

"That hoard is cursed and you'd do better to stay as far from it as possible," the man interjects, "I'd die before I touched a coin from it!"

Several other voices join the indistinct clamor. Warily Bilbo climbs to his feet - he left his sword upstairs, but his power hums smoothly. Somebody knocks sharply on the door and Bifur opens it quickly.

Kíli steps first through the door, followed by Gloin and Fíli who glares angrily over his shoulder. Dwalin's form blocks most of the crowd from view, their worn clothes fading into the nightly darkness, but Bilbo catches the flickering torch lights.

"The dragon will not harm you, Master Bard," Thorin says evenly, "Smaug has no interest in this town."

There is fierce undercurrent to his voice and Gloin mutters, "nothing of value here, anyway" but luckily nobody hears it.

"Our quest is none of your concern," Thorin announces.

"You have no right to enter the mountain!" The man addressed as Bard shouts after Thorin, "not when it will be Laketown that pays the price!"

Thorin ignores him. Dwalin, the last one to come in, turns to the crowd. "You are wrong," he tells them with a rare note of smugness in his voice, "Thorin is King under the Mountain. He has the right."

And after he is inside, Bifur slams the door shut. Outside the crowd erupts into shouting, but the dwarves proceed to ignore it.

"How did the meeting go?" Ori inquires, already bowed over his journal again.

Balin sighs and Thorin's frown darkens. Fíli shakes his head hard enough to make his breads fly. "That man... I don't believe I've ever encountered such a scumbag before. How did he get to become master of this town?"

Balin shrugs wearily and Bilbo is glad to have missed that meeting. "It went alright, I believe," Balin announces to the room, "they will not obstruct us and in exchange for a handsome fee support us against elves and orcs."

"Not that they'll be much help," Dwalin grumbles and wanders toward the kitchen, "their weapons were so dull, they wouldn't cut bread."

Kíli snorts, and Oin looks up from his herbs. "How much did they want?"

"A thousand gold coins," Gloin says and several dwarves gasp.

"Well," Gloin adds after a moment, "it's not that much. I mean, right now it is, but once we have the mountain back we’ll practically have to flood the markets with currency and the gold will naturally devalue."

Bilbo gives Gloin a sharp look. That sounds almost like a certain tactic the Sackvilles tried one year in order to make his father sell them a piece of his land. Apparently, market mechanics are a tactic not just used by hobbits.

"Alright," Kíli agrees, "is there some soup left, Bombur? My stomach's queasy from whatever the master served us."

Bilbo's attention shifts again when the chair next to his is drawn back and Thorin sits down with a heavy sigh.

"Difficult negotiations?" Bilbo inquires while Thorin gratefully accepts a drink from Dwalin.

"Not so much difficult," Thorin replies warily, "But that man - you could see he was only interested in what we could pay him. He wouldn't have even spoken to us had we not shown up and rented this house."

"Not a nice character, I gathered," Bilbo replies. "And I guess running into that crowd wasn't exactly fun either?"

Thorin's lips twitch. "In all honesty," he says, "They made a better case of caring for their town than the Master did."

Bilbo sits up straighter. "Are they in danger?"

Thorin hesitates, before shaking his head. "The damage Laketown sustained when Smaug came was minimal compared to Dale and Erebor. The dragon cares only for gold - he will not attack this town while it is so poor."

And Bilbo can only hope that is true. "Well," he announces and finishes his drink, "I think I'll be heading back to bed."

To his surprise Thorin rises with him and follows him out. The others cheerfully bid them a good night, and Thorin climbs up the stairs after him.

"Bilbo," he begins just before they have reached Bilbo's room, "I just wanted to thank you. What you did for us - it has been beyond what I ever dared to hope for."

Bilbo's heart skips a beat and he turns to fully face Thorin. "I was fighting for my own life, too."

Thorin shakes his head. "But you seem to do it with so little regard for your own," he says and he's close enough that Bilbo has to tilt his head up, "I worry for you."

"You shouldn't," Bilbo replies and can't quite stop himself from teasing, "However would you survive when I go to burgle a dragon?"

Thorin's face grows utterly serious. Bilbo becomes aware of the wall behind his back and that he's almost caged in by the tall dwarf.

"I am worried about that, too," Thorin admits, "When we made that plan, when Gandalf suggested burglary I ... I did not think about the danger the burglar would be exposed to."

Bilbo gives him a tiny smile. "Well, I did. And I -"

Thorin interrupts him, shaking his head. "I cannot in good conscience put you into danger like that, Bilbo. Should harm befall you -“

"Thorin," Bilbo calls and reaches out; resting his hand on Thorin's, "Thorin. You know I hesitated to sign the contract. But when I did, I was sure. It's a risk I am willing and able to take."

At least, he hopes that with his magic ring and his powers he will have a chance.

The King under the Mountain looks no further convinced for Bilbo’s declaration. "I mean no disrespect to your capabilities, Bilbo," he says and slowly his other hand lifts, too. Brushes a thumb gently over Bilbo's cheek, the skin coarse, before settling in the golden curls.

A pleasant shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. His cheek tingles and a part of him wants more, wants this contact to deepen.  

"But I look at you and see something fragile. There is such kindness to you, something I would not see harmed if it is in my power to prevent it."

His eyes, Bilbo thinks, almost dizzily, Thorin's eyes are more beautiful than ever. Up close he can see the colors shift within them, and as in a trance he rises onto the tip of his toes and presses his lips against Thorin's.

When he draws back, Thorin's eyes are wide with wonder and Bilbo's heart skips a beat. His foolish heart had always been weak to beautiful creatures and Thorin is more than that. So he smiles at the King under the Mountain, hoping his gesture has not ruined anything.

"And I would protect you, too, if it was in my power," Bilbo tells him, "but I know I am not skilled with a blade and so must rely on what weapons I possess. And trust you to have my back."

Thorin's fingers tighten ever so slightly in Bilbo's hair. "Then I will lay down my life to defend it," he vows. His grip on Bilbo's hair tugs the hobbit forward while he simultaneously bends down and this time their lips meet for more than just a short moment.

Thorin's lips are softer than they look, Bilbo thinks. Thin yet giving and full of warmth, and when Thorin's arm slides down to wrap around him it feels like finding home.

When they break Bilbo finds the affection welling up in his chest mirrored in Thorin's eyes. The King under the Mountain smiles at him warmly and for a moment playfully puts both of his hands around Bilbo's waist.

"You have lost some weight," he states with a raised eyebrow.

Bilbo huffs. "Well, I'm afraid the catering in Mirkwood was not quite to my taste. Too many poisonous mushrooms and tasteless squirrel."

Thorin chuckles. "I'm glad it did not impede your sense of humor."

"Oh," Bilbo shrugs, "That's hobbits for you. To us the world is insane anyway, so we may as well laugh at it."

"I have yet to hear of a similar coping strategy," Thorin replies and reaches back up to touch Bilbo's cheek. "But you look pale, still. I will let you sleep - take your rest, we will set out the day after tomorrow."


	12. To Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company remains in Laketown for another day before setting out. With days to spare, they manage to determine the location of door fairly early - which leaves time for an excursion to Laketown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I was late in writing this, the later half is self-betaed. So all the mistakes are mine!!! (please feel free to point those out so I can go back and edit).
> 
> Also, **warning** this chapter has an explicit scene. If that's not your cup of tea, either skip from the point Bilbo and Thorin head to Dale or when they find the linen closet.

Even though butterflies tease his stomach while he settles down, sleep soon claims him. Bilbo wakes late the next morning and finds the fog has dissipated, but a heavy cover of clouds has set in. The Lonely Mountain remains hidden from view and Bilbo is content to laze about with the others.

Strangely enough, he finds himself entirely at ease with Thorin. In spite of the many misunderstandings lining their way to this point, this time they seem to have found an understanding – to let this growing affection between them develop in whatever shape it may take. There are too many incalculable factors to plan – Thorin brushing his hand over Bilbo’s as he reaches for the bread is sign enough for the hobbit.

“I hope I wasn’t too forward last night,” Thorin mumbles when they find themselves alone in the kitchen.

Bilbo remembers rising on his toes. “I should be asking that.”

Thorin smiles. “You don’t need to.”

And then Bombur wanders back into his realm, whistling a cheerful tune and they break apart. There are so many questions they ought to be answering – Thorin’s position, Bilbo’s home, their different responsibilities – but for now they will enjoy what they have. Puzzling out questions can come later, Bilbo thinks, once the mountain is reclaimed. The dragon still may gobble them all up, anyway.

For the time being they’re all content to enjoy the food and comfort they have. They don’t talk of what awaits them in the mountain and Bilbo is glad to ignore it. After all, until they know whether the dragon still lives or not, what plans can they make? As morning shifts to afternoon Kíli brings up the topic of what he wants to do once the mountain is reclaimed – his personal aim is to visit every tavern in Middle Earth, even in the elven cities. While everybody bursts out laughing, Gloin pats his back with a shake of the head. “Won’t happen, little princeling. Should have started that quest earlier.”

Kíli shrugs. “Well, somebody needs to be the black sheep causing scandal. I volunteer for that part.”

Fíli playfully elbows his brother’s side. “You only want to eschew your responsibility,” he diagnoses, while Kíli denies the charge with an outright hilariously faux-innocent expression. “Me?” he stage-whispers, “Never!”

Bilbo chuckles, and next to him Ori sets his quill down. “The first thing I will do,” the young dwarf proclaims, “Is buy a decent quill. These ones are rubbish!”

“Decent clothes wouldn’t go amiss, either,” Dori adds with a raised eyebrow. Even in their new purchases they still look quite ragged.

“Good weapons,” Gloin says at the same time Bombur longingly mentions, “Good food. Real roast and fresh potatoes. Garlic butter and steamed pork. And what I wouldn’t give for a stuffed goose.”

“Ah, you’ll have all the stuffed gooses you want, once we have the mountain,” Kíli answers while Bilbo with a pang of guilt recalls his filled pantry in the Shire. Intellectually he’d always known that the Shire was blessed – but knowing and hearing it from close friends are two entirely different things.

“What about you, Bofur?” Fíli asks, drawing Bilbo from his thoughts.

Bofur shrugs cheerfully. “Don’t really know. Maybe drink myself out of my mind. Or just out of mining.”

“You won’t need to mine even a single piece of coal ever again,” Kíli responds.

“Well, I do like mining,” Bofur replies, “And apparently Erebor has some very pretty gems.”

“You’ll be the Minister for Mining then,” Fíli proclaims. Kíli nods along, “And Dwalin, of course, is going to be the head of guard and Balin will be the head advisor.”

Bilbo just barely catches Balin muttering, “I actually wanted to retire…” But the dwarf does not protest out loud and from what Bilbo has observed concerning the dynamics he doubts Balin’s position is one that actually allows retirement.

“Gloin’s going to be treasurer and Bombur will head the kitchens,” Fíli continues, “Nori… hmm, how about you found a conspiracy?”

Nori raises an eyebrow. “Plotting already? We haven’t even won the mountain yet and you’re already thinking about how to undermine the opposition?”

Fíli shrugs. “Just planning ahead. Also, Dori – you wanted to start a business, didn’t you? I guess Ori will be busy as a historian and with the library. Maybe Bilbo can help you.”

“He’d have to learn Khuzdul, then,” Nori interjects and abruptly all heads swivel around to look at the hobbit. Bilbo raises his hands in defense. “I can help with everything else,” he offers, “I know your language is a secret.”

“Actually,” Balin says thoughtfully, stroking his beard, “If we manage to win the mountain, you would count as more than honorary dwarf, so I doubt there’d be any opposition to you learning our language.”

Bilbo manages a smile. “Let’s win the mountain first?”

The conversation drifts on, but Bilbo’s mind is caught on the implications. Has he truly been offered to stay? He’s contracted as member of their company and by now considers himself a friend – but to be offered a home in a kingdom of dwarves. It’s not a case he heard about in his study of history and a part of him always expected to one day return to Hobbiton. To the rolling green hills and the peaceful small rivers. The golden wheat fields and his parents’ home.

He misses these. Here in the cold, desolate shadow of the mountain, he misses the tranquility of the Shire more than ever. And yet there is part of his heart that already knows he will regret leaving those dwarves behind.

His mind circulates uselessly around those thoughts until Bilbo deems fresh air the best solution. Bundled up in a new coat, he slips the ring into his pocket, steps outside and takes a deep breath. The light already wanes and the chill easily sneaks under his clothes.

He wriggles his toes and makes his way toward the market. Bilbo has always enjoyed browsing wares, but soon he himself becomes an attraction. If the crowd upon their arrival had mostly been curious, he senses his welcome vanishing. Word of their plan must have spread and Bilbo can feel the tension in the air.

Though he would like to explore more, it might be a better idea to go home, Bilbo decides, before the situation turns on him.

“Hey, hey, wait!” somebody shouts and Bilbo sees the crowd parting for the man that was shouting at Thorin yesterday – Bard. He’s still wearing the worn leather coat from the day before.

“You!” he points toward Bilbo, “You’re with the dwarves! Oi! Wait!”

Bilbo doesn’t wait. He ducks around the corner and before any of the crowd can follow he slips on his magic ring. The world grows grey and blurry and the scar on his chest throbs so abruptly, Bilbo has to bend over.

“Where did he go?” Somebody mutters far, far too close. Bilbo slips further down and crouches next to a barrel on the wall, pulling in his toes lest somebody stumble over him.

“He went in here,” a woman adds, “I saw it!”

The crowd mutters and Bilbo catches sight of the three children trailing behind Bard, sharing his features. They must be his children, Bilbo realizes and suddenly Bard’s concern for the safety of the town appears in an entirely different light. Guiltily Bilbo recalls his own dismissal – but revealing himself now will not change anything.

And he must hope Thorin’s words will be true. Nothing in this town should interest the dragon.

“I swear I saw him run this way, da,” the boy tells Bard.

Bard stares at the empty air with a flummoxed expression. His eyes hover just a bit right to Bilbo’s hiding space and the hobbit barely dares to breathe.

“I know,” Bard tells his son with a frown.

“He must have slipped through somewhere,” the older girl says. Her younger sister is holding onto their father’s hand, expression anxious and Bilbo has to stop himself from getting up and vowing to them that the dragon will not hurt them.

“I guess he did,” Bard says and then turns. “Come on, I did promise you could pick out a fabric, Tilda.”

And just like that the youngest smiles and the family returns to the market. Bilbo stays where he sits a moment longer, thoughts whirling. He can understand the opposition to their plan better now – almost better than he wants to – but he cannot deny the dwarves the right to reclaim their home either. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s one of these terrible decisions where there is no clear-cut right answer. So maybe, he reasons, if he helps the dwarves and the dragon is dead then it will be the right outcome for all.

***

They set out from Laketown before the break of dawn. Bilbo shivers while Bofur heaves the last sack with food on board. The entire town is covered in a thick, rolling fog and he's torn between wanting to leave it behind and fearing what is yet to come.

According to Balin, they may reach Erebor by afternoon. Which leaves them almost seven days to find the hidden door. Unless, of course, Bilbo thinks and stares glumly at the still water, their boat sinks before they even reach the shore. But the water remains quiet and silent. The light, cool breeze playing with Bilbo's curls barely even stirs it. And once Laketown has disappeared in the grey fog behind them, silence reigns.

Their boat glides across steadily with Gloin and Dori working the oars. Thorin sits at the helm, staring into the fog. His entire body radiates tension, and for a time the company remains quiet. Fatigue, their otherworldly surroundings and the realization that their goal is at hand weight on everybody's mood.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Kíli says after a while, "We're almost there."

Fíli gives him a small smile, and Kíli continues. "I've always imagined what it would be like - after all the tales we heard. When we were young I always wanted to at least go and see it once." He shakes his head. "To think we are finally here."

Bilbo feels himself nodding, though Gloin huffs from behind the oar. "We are not inside yet."

Balin and a few others chuckle. Bilbo's stomach sinks - so far he has successfully avoided thinking about the dragon. That he will have to go and face it.

Around them the fog begins to lighten as somewhere beyond it the sun rises. The company's spirits pick up - soon Bofur is telling jokes, supported by Nori. Ori has his sketchbook out and is bowed over it, while Kíli and Fíli keep their eyes peeled to the horizon. They do not want to miss catching a glimpse of the mountain once the fog clears.

The fog, however, persists. Even when they reach the shore mid-morning it hasn't completely lifted. At least it is light and Bilbo thinks there is a chance the sun may yet come out - humidity aside, the air does not feel too cold either. They rarely get these foggy autumn days in the Shire and usually the fog is gone by noon - often to reveal a cloudless blue sky. And warmth recalling summer.

But home is far, far behind and Bilbo ignores the strange pull in his chest at the thought. Instead he reaches for the ring in the pocket of his new coat. The metal is smooth and cold and little as he may like wearing it, he is going to need everything that can help against the dragon.

The company divides the provisions and Bilbo finds his pack rather heavy. Next to him, Fíli struggles for balance. "Can't you float some of that stuff?" Fíli asks.

Bilbo frowns - carrying it for so long will be a drain and should they come across somebody -

Dwalin claps Fíli's shoulder. "What, already complaining? I thought I trained you two to be warriors."

Kíli straightens up under the challenge. Bilbo has seen mules carrying less than Dwalin, but if the dwarf thinks his load is heavy, he gives no sign. Instead he turns his head decisively to the left where Thorin is already heading toward an old path, accompanied by Balin.

Fíli gives Bilbo one last pleading look, to which the hobbit merely shakes his head. "Later perhaps," Bilbo says. Once his own load has grown too heavy, too.

Then he turns and helps Gloin and Bombur tug the boat onto the shore with a wave of the hand. Both dwarves flinch back in surprise when the boat moves by itself, but then Bombur inclines his head gratefully into Bilbo's direction.

After that their path leads them uphill. The ground under Bilbo's feet is barren and scorched. Where Mirkwood felt twisted and sick, these lands feel dead. It is difficult to imagine there once were fields and forest here. 

As they approach noon, the fog finally lifts and they get their first view of the Lonely Mountain in days. It's closer than Bilbo expected it to be. Now he can make out the grand statues carved into stone, the hanging glaciers covering the upper slopes. Above them, the sky is cloudless and within a few more moments of walking they have all started sweating.

Thorin's steps pick up speed. An almost smile has spread over his face and it only vanishes when they climb another steep path. The land evens out before disappearing down a ravine. On the other side, slightly to the left of Erebor sits a marvelous, silent city.

"Dale?" Bilbo inquires quietly.

Dwalin, catching up to him, nods. By now his face has reddened and shines with sweat. They must have reached some height because the wind meeting them is cold and carries a frosty bite. When Bilbo turns to look behind, the lake is still hidden in rolling fog.

"Let's take a break, lads," Bofur calls, "This place is as good as any."

Bilbo wants to protest. While certainly a grand panorama, the ruins of Dale sets him on the edge. Seeing the destruction Smaug wrought; he wonders again whether they have any chance at succeeding.

Thorin frowns impatiently at the road ahead, but Balin gestures at everybody to gather around a couple of larger rocks. They provide cover from the sharp wind and the smaller ones simultaneously function as a table and places to sit.

"We're making good time," Balin announces, "We still have several days until Durin's Day."

Bombur sets down the largest sack of provisions with a loud huff and begins unpacking it. Everybody follows suit and soon they look at a very nice spread. It's funny, Bilbo thinks as he munches on a dry loaf of bread, his face tilted toward the sun, in the Shire this would not be much more than a snack. Now it feels like a small feast.

But after the disastrous journey through Mirkwood everything would feel welcoming. A small shudder runs down his spine. He reverently hopes they do not encounter any of those creatures again. And Azog -

He has almost forgotten about Thorin's archenemy. Now he glances over to where Thorin sits on the outskirts of their group, eyes lingering on the mountain. He holds a bowl in his hand, but seems uninterested in the food. Well, as Bilbo noticed in Mirkwood, dwarves fare somewhat better on small rations than hobbits do. After only two nights in Laketown his friends all look to be in good health again, while he is under no illusion that he is worlds away from proper hobbit weight.

"... scout out Dale," Bilbo overhears Nori say, "Who knows what hides there."

Dwalin's face darkens and Bilbo scouts closer. Balin grimaces. "There ought to be time for that later."

Nori shrugs. "I'm just saying. That place offers many spaces to hide and you never know who's watching."

"I doubt Thorin will permit further delays," Fíli replies uneasily. So it's not only him who has noticed Thorin's mood, Bilbo thinks. Then again, he doubts he would fare any better if he was this close to achieving a lifetime goal.

"Then we go to the mountain first," Nori says, "But we should check out Dale before the sun sets. Anything else is too risky."

Dwalin gives a short nod. "We'll come with you," Kíli offers and looks from Nori to Dwalin. Those two exchange a short glance before Dwalin shakes his head. "Reconnaissance only," Nori tells them, "But don't fret - you'll know if we run into trouble."

Fíli snorts at that and Ori grimaces. Dori rolls his eyes. "Please do not seek out trouble."

"We may have enough of it soon, anyway," Bilbo adds with a thoughtful nod toward the mountain. The dwarves sober as they all remember the dragon.

"I wonder," Fíli says after a moment, "If Smaug can hear us approach. It's very silent here."

Bilbo shudders. The sun may be hot, but his sweat has dried and the air has a bite to it. Next to him Dori shifts uneasily.

"If the tales are true, yes," Ori replies, "Smaug, according to legend, should be able to see as far as Laketown and hear everything that approaches. There is a reason he burnt the entire area and wasn't content to just plunder Dale."

Bilbo’s stomach twists and Kíli pales. "Does that mean he could attack us any moment?"

Fíli casts a glance toward the mountain, but everything is calm. No rampaging dragon bursts from the rock - nothing stirs and that, Bilbo thinks, might even be worse.

Ori looks astonishingly unruffled, "Obviously. We're on his territory. But that he hasn't come out means he's asleep or dead, I suppose."

"Or waiting and watching," Balin adds glumly, "Smaug's a beast from the book, but a fiercely intelligent one. It wouldn't do for us to underestimate him."

His power hums calmly. Bilbo wraps it around the bowl in his hands and moves it the slightest bit, just to make sure. Between this and his magic ring - he still doesn't think he has much of a chance. Taking on dragons is what the heroes of ancient legends did; wise elves, noble men and courageous dwarves. Hobbits do not figure in these legends for a very good reason.

And yet he will play his part. He has come so far - and if any of the company will be able to sneak past a dragon unseen it will likely be him.

***

They reach Erebor in the afternoon. Balin has cautioned them to stay clear of the main gate. Debris lies strewn about, unmoved since the day it fell, and Bilbo looks away when he catches sight of a fluttering piece of fabric pinned by a rock. He doesn't want to see the reminders of the tragedy - his mind has already imagined the chaotic escape of those lucky enough to reach the exit often enough.

"It should be around here," Thorin announces and unfolds the map.

And very soon the somber mood is forgotten as they search the mysterious entrance. Nori and Dwalin take their leave to scout out Dale and while Thorin is not happy, he accepts their reasoning. His eyes stay fixed on the mountain.

After Bilbo once again has turned back having found nothing he slips into place next to Thorin and reaches for one of water skins.

“Anything?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo shakes his head. The sun has begun its descent, but it’s still warm when one is scrambling over rocks and his shirt sticks to his back.

“It must be here,” Thorin says and there is an undercurrent of desperation coloring his voice.

“We will find it,” Bilbo tells him, “We only just got here, we still have several days. And from what I heard dwarf doors are generally very difficult to find.”

“All but invisible when closed,” Balin adds, “Let’s have a look at that map again. Maybe there’s another clue hidden there.”

Wordlessly Thorin unfolds the map and sets it down on a flat rock. Slowly the company gathers around it.

“There is one thing I was wondering,” Ori says while Bilbo is ready to admit defeat. He cannot make out much on the map, nor can he read the writing. “The last light that was referenced – could that mean moonlight?”

Balin blinks. “Certainly, that’s a possibility.”

Ori smiles. “I just thought – if they already used moon runes, those themselves could be another clue. And if I’m not entirely wrong, using moonlight to trigger doors was popular around the time this map was written.”

Balin nods, twirling his beard. Oin polishes his ear trumpet, though none of them can quite hide that they feel impressed.

Only Thorin frowns. “That may very well be the case. However, I would rest easier if we found the door before.”

“Maybe it’s further up the mountain?” Gloin suggests. “There could have been something hidden in the statues. We can’t see everything from down here.”

“It’s really high!” Kíli exclaims, leaning back to see the top. The Kings of old have withered, but their features remain clearly carved into the rock. And among their beards, crowns and jewelry anything could be hidden. Perhaps it was even constructed when the Kings first were carved, Bilbo thinks – simply to access these areas of the mountain.

“And steep,” Dori pronounces, “We don’t have the equipment to climb up there.”

“We’re good at that,” Fíli replies with a confident smile, ignoring Balin’s pronounced frown of disapproval.

“It’s too dangerous,” Dori rules, “They might be unstable. You could bring down the statues on top of everybody.”

“Well,” Bilbo coughs and everybody turns to look at him. “I can get you up there,” he offers with a shrug. Usually he doesn’t hold onto persons with his power – the grip feels strange. But as he had managed to float Lobelia into a pond as a young hobbit, he can certainly move some dwarves up the mountain, now that he has more routine in using his talent.

***

They set up camp before between the statues - Balin and Ori are certain the door must be somewhere there - and the carvings offer shelter from wind and rain. Bilbo still shivers during the night. This high in the mountains the temperatures are growing frosty quickly. His sleep is uneasy - the waiting tears at his nerves. Around him the dwarves seem relaxed, enjoying games, but Bilbo finds he has difficulty distracting himself.

Instead he finds himself gazing westward. The Misty Mountains are out of sight, but he thinks about the way home. It feels out of reach and maybe he will not make it. Maybe he will never see his home again - in which case, Bilbo thinks, he should have had a better last day in his home.

"Dark thoughts, Bilbo?" Thorin asks.

Bilbo jumps - he never heard the dwarf approach. Then he forces a small smile. "Well, more like thinking about what's ahead," he says, "But I guess a dragon qualifies for dark thoughts."

"He may yet be dead," Thorin counters and then shakes his head. "We will know soon enough. But enough of that - will you come with me to Dale?"

Bilbo blinks. Nori and Dwalin had reported the town entirely deserted.

"We may need some more blankets," Thorin replies, "And, well ... I wonder what it looks like."

Nori's face had been carefully blank upon their return, Bilbo recalls. Dwalin had frowned darkly for the remaining evening. Whatever they had seen, he doubts it will bring them joy. Still, he would rather accompany Thorin than spend another day waiting for the sun to set.

"Certainly," he replies with a shudder as a particular hard blast of wind hits them. It carries a hint of snow - which would be frighteningly early for the Shire, but they are in the north. And even if they are far away and he is surrounded by skilled fighters, Bilbo cannot quite suppress his memories. Winter always brings them along.

He is glad when Thorin turns to go. Bilbo may not like the ropes the dwarves fixed along the steep ascend, but holding onto them takes his full concentration. Later, when they have walked in silence for a while and the crumbled towers of Dale come closer, Thorin sighs.

"I wonder how Erebor will look on the inside," he says, "I wonder whether Smaug wrought destruction on both cities alike. A part of me still recalls the Erebor of old - but I see the traces of destruction here and I remember how stone crumbled when the dragon came."

Dale ahead is a skeleton of a city. Its towers crumbling and scorched, its houses collapsed. Mortar, bricks and torn fabric litter the ground. The walls look shaky and broken. Bilbo shivers. He doubts Erebor will look better.

"Once you have reclaimed it," he tells Thorin instead, "You can always rebuild."

Thorin smiles. "Newer and better, isn't it."

"Indeed," Bilbo agrees, "Look at it as an opportunity to redecorate."

It draws a small chuckle from Thorin and the noise seems to dispel the lingering ghosts. Under their feet broken stones crumble further and they pass Dale's gate.

"Well, I shall take your advice," Thorin says, "This used to be the second gate - the main one is over there, but the bridge is mostly gone. We - my family - usually took the second gate when we snuck out."

More privacy, Bilbo guesses. He has known Thorin as a warrior and a leader, it should be difficult to imagine him as a young boy. But he finds it not that hard at all - and finds he wishes he could have seen it.

"The only sneaking we did," Bilbo tells him, "Was trying to get some apples from the Farrow's orchard." Which was before his powers had manifested. After, it had taken years before he had dared to do any sneaking again. "I guess it must have been different for you." Thorin had, after all, been a prince.

Thorin shrugs. "Well, I think we were probably the only ones thinking we were sneaky. Everybody else just humored us."

"That must have been nice," Bilbo comments.

"It was for a time," Thorin replies and leads them around a corner. The buildings here are not quite so devastated - at least most of the roofs here still exist. "But things started to change even before Smaug came."

"What happened?" Bilbo asks quietly.

Thorin turns another corner and leads them up a short flight of stairs. "You recall Elrond speaking of a curse?"

Bilbo flinches, because he remembers their unfortunate conversation after quite clearly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he tells Thorin, "For riling you up."

Thorin snorts. "We both were doing the same to each other," he replies, "What Elrond was referencing was my grandfather - he was starting to go mad with old age. It made him suspicious and paranoid, and some say his behavior brought the dragon down upon us."

He shakes his head. "It was the gold he amassed. You may have heard of the goldsickness - it's driven more than one dwarf beyond reason. My grandfather, however, as King of Erebor had the opportunity to amass a heretofore unknown hoard. Which was bound to attract a dragon sooner or later. We even had defenses against dragons in place."

They apparently weren't much help against Smaug, Bilbo thinks. "And your father? Didn't anybody step in?"

Thorin sighs. "We tried. But caught in the sickness, grandfather refused to listen to reason." He shrugs. "He was our king, too, so there wasn't much we could have done, anyway. Well, look ahead - the city hall."

Before them a wide square opens up. Once upon a time, Bilbo thinks, it must have been breath-taking. But the mosaics on the floor are broke, the colors faded. Scorch marks blacken walls and buildings and a layer of ash and dust has begun to cover everything. On the far end the crumbling city hall rises. Its roof collapsed, its doors broken - and yet hauntingly beautiful.

Bilbo stops for a moment, marveling at the space before him. He can only imagine what it was like - and yet if they succeed, Dale may rise again and this dead city will be nothing but a fleeting memory.

"It's amazing," he tells Thorin truthfully. Breath-taking in its beauty and frightening in its destruction. Because it reminds him of what he will face.

Thorin comes to stand next to Bilbo's shoulder and the hobbit can feel the warmth radiate off him. "It was," he says, "Now, shall we have a look for some fabrics?"

Bilbo is glad Thorin picks the public buildings. It still feels like looting when they make their way past rotten wood and crumbling walls into rooms where nothing has been touched in nearly a century. At least the dust dispels any illusions of only shortly absent owners.

The city hall provides little in terms of fabric, so Thorin directs them toward one of the former guest houses. "This was the one for the dignitaries and rich merchants," he tells Bilbo, "Sailors stayed in Laketown and there were a few other guest houses on the outer parts of the city. Those were the rowdier areas."

Bilbo chuckles as he steps inside. Whatever carpet there was on the floor has long since rotted and he hopes they will find some parts of fabric in better shape.

“I suppose you would know?” he offers teasingly.

Thorin’s lips quirk. “Not as well as my brother did, however. It’s quite difficult to be sneaky when everybody is watching your every step.”

“Well,” Bilbo says before he quite knows what he is saying, “Nobody is watching now.”

Thorin falters, blinks. Bilbo can see him registering the implication and an utterly charming blush spreads across his face. “Bilbo, you…”

And why not? Bilbo thinks to himself as he fights down his own blood. It’s been a long time since he shared a bed and he doesn’t know if he ever will again. He’s always been attracted to Thorin – there was a reason the King got under his skin so easily – and now his fingertips tingle.

So he waggles his eyebrows in exaggeration. “There might even be an intact bed in here somewhere.”

Thorin bursts out laughing and it lights up his face and Bilbo knows he’s made the right decision. Whatever may come of it, wherever this path may lead - for now Bilbo will gladly follow it. Contently Bilbo turns to march forward – ideally to the next mostly intact bedroom – but a hand snakes around his wrist and pulls him back. With an oomph he stumbles into Thorin’s chest but before he can protest hungry lips find his own.

“I must warn you,” Thorin whispers, his breath tantalizingly brushing over Bilbo’s cheeks, “I am greedy.”

Bilbo buries his hand in Thorin’s hair and tugs playfully. “Then I have nothing to fear.”

A tingle stirs in his loins and distracts Bilbo for a moment. It’s not a sensation he has felt in a long, long time and when Thorin’s hands tighten around him a shiver runs down his spine.

“Oh, but you should,” Thorin whispers into his ear, his breath hitting just the right spot and Bilbo shudders. His trousers feel tight, his knees wobble and the amount of pleasure rushing through his body swells dangerously. With a smirk, Thorin reaches past him and pushes open the first door they come upon –

And a cold gust of wind hits them both. The bedframe remains in the room, as does on cupboard but the entire outer wall is gone. Instead they look upon the ruins of the city hall underneath a cloudy sky. 

“Well,” Bilbo manages, deadpan, “It’s a nice panorama.”

Thorin elbows him in a manner that should be entirely unattractive and leaves Bilbo bent over with laughter. Throwing his head back, the King stalks over to the next door – and they find a room filled with sheets and pillows and curtains but no window at all.

“Linen closet,” Bilbo announces. Thorin blinks at it.

“Perfect for us!” the hobbit declares and with a wave of his hand the first sheet rises into the air, wraps playfully around Thorin and drags him in. The king stumbles forward with an odd noise, and Bilbo follows suit.

He lets the piece of linen release Thorin the moment he is inside and the King looks at him with a playful frown. “That was rather unfair,” he teases, “Must I take my revenge?”

A nice tingling spreads through Bilbo’s lower stomach. “If you can,” he dares him

Thorin smirks in a ridiculously sultry manner and rips the sheet that caught him into thin strips. Bilbo feels torn between arousal and laughing, but before he can settle on one Thorin casts his makeshift line out. It wraps neatly around Bilbo’s shoulders and before the hobbit quite realized what has happened, he’s being spun around - .

And then Thorin lets go.

The momentum is too fast for Bilbo to regain his equilibrium and then his ankle catches on something and he falls backwards with a shriek. Hits a small, soft mountain of dusty pillows and bedsheets and hears Thorin chuckle before the huge form descends.

His word sinks into shadow. Thorin’s braids tickle him, before lips brush over Bilbo’s cheeks and chin, past his ears and downward to nibble lightly at his neck. Bilbo shudders, hands reaching blindly for something to hold on. His lower body throbs for attention, but when he bucks up, Thorin rests one hand on his stomach and gently but firmly presses him back into the pillows.

Bilbo impatiently tugs at Thorin’s overcoat and eventually the King leans back, slips out of the sleeves and allows it to pool on the ground behind him. Then Thorin unbuttons the shift beneath and layer upon layer is pushed aside until skin peeks through. Bilbo bites down on his lower lip – half in jest, half because he desperately wants to touch the exposed skin.

Thorin leans down again, hovering over Bilbo and while his teeth return to lovely spot in the crook of Bilbo’s neck, his fingers seek out the buttons of Bilbo’s waistcoat. He pushes vest and shirt only half-way down Bilbo’s arms and when the hobbit realizes his arms are caught, Thorin smirks.

“You asked,” he tells Bilbo cheekily.

For a moment Bilbo contemplates using his powers to tilt the scales. But his body is warm and he feels too nice and wants to take this to its conclusion. So instead he lets himself sink back and offers his neck in what he hopes is a nicely demure gesture.

“You have me then,” Bilbo whispers, “Take me.”

Thorin’s smile grows downright feral. He bites and nibbles and kisses his way down Bilbo chest and when the hobbit feels on the brink of insanity his hands finally begin to work on the buckle of Bilbo’s belt.

Cheekily Bilbo reaches out with his power and begins to tug down Thorin’s trousers, too. To his credit Thorin falters only for a moment, before resuming his work. Daft hands trace Bilbo’s thighs, pinch the flesh and tease, tease, tease until Bilbo has enough and uses his power to push Thorin forward.

The dwarf manages to catch himself before he flattens Bilbo, but now their groins touch and Bilbo just needs to lift his hips the slightest bit and the friction is delicious. An odd sound falls from Thorin’s lips, Bilbo can’t stop himself from groaning and he doesn’t know just when his eyes fluttered shut, but he feels as if he’s flying higher and higher, though he knows they’re rutting against each other like inexperienced novices, but it’s bright and brilliant. And then Thorin’s lips find Bilbo’s earlobe and the sensation sets off a firework.

When Bilbo’s vision flickers back into color again, the sheets and pillows all hover in midair, Thorin lies atop of him and they’re both panting as if they’d just run a race. But he feels lighter than ever, and doesn’t even try to swallow down the laugh bubbling up in his chest. Gently the pillows and sheets fall back to the ground and isn’t it ridiculous – two grown men acting like tweens, and this clumsy encounter shouldn’t even register to him as something more than a vague embarrassing episode.

But somehow it feels more meaningful than every other encounter in memory.

“What are you laughing about?” Thorin grumbles, face still buried in the pillow next to Bilbo’s shoulder. “Was it that terrible?”

“No, no,” Bilbo hastens to assure lightly, “Certainly not. But, really, look at us. If we survive we need to do this again.”

“Again?” Thorin echoes and there is an endearingly hopeful note in his voice.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies, “And that time we’ll make sure we are adequately prepared, and, you know, perform … well, err…” 

Thorin nods and his hand sneak over the small of Bilbo’s back, caressing the soft skin there. “We will.”

They stay there a moment longer, before the shadows begin to lengthen. The others will wonder what took them so long, but at least they found fabric. And though Bilbo’s small outburst of power and Thorin’s excursion into terrible clichés made short work of some sheets, most of the pillows and blankets survived without terrible damage.

They gather up their spoils, straighten their clothes and head back. Nori takes one look at them and raises an eyebrow. Bofur waggles his eyebrows and Fíli smirks. “Pillow fighting, uncle?”


	13. Smaug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo faces Smaug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this has Smaug and Erebor and therefore quite some violence and bleak things.

Waiting for Durin’s day is, Bilbo thinks, simultaneously the most stressful and least exciting part of their adventure. A part of him wishes the day would not arrive, another part wishes it over already. Around him, the dwarves are busy attempting to locate the secret door, even though both Balin and Ori have reaffirmed that the door will not be visible before the predicted time.

“I was wondering,” Bilbo says, as he sits down next to Balin. Thorin has been lost in the search ever since they returned from Dale and if not for the small gestures of affection or the tender smiles Bilbo would think nothing had happened.

“When we find the door, I will go down and find out whether or not the dragon still lives. What then?” Bilbo asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

Balin sighs and turns to look at Bilbo. “You return to us,” he states firmly, “If Smaug is dead, we take stock of Erebor and the quest has been fulfilled. If it lives… we have to devise a plan.”

Balin looks wary and Bilbo nods. The long periods he has been left to think by himself has given him opportunity to reconsider the early days of their quest. And his conversations with Gandalf.

“I think Gandalf said something – some sigil needed to round up an army?” he hazards. “Something that would enable Thorin to move against Smaug?”

Balin looks away. “The Arkenstone, aye. All dwarves owe allegiance to the one who wields it. Should Thorin find it, he could rally an army large enough to take on the dragon.”

“And would it help win the fight?” Bilbo inquires. A magic gem would certainly help - he knows that, Bilbo thinks and pats the ring in his pocket in reassurance.

“No,” Balin says and it shoots down the spark of hope blossoming in Bilbo’s chest, “No. It merely enables Thorin to require the other dwarven kingdoms to stand by their oath. Once Thorin wields the Arkenstone, all kingdoms must send armies to aid him.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. It sounds like an enormous waste of lives. “That is what I am to burgle,” Bilbo figures, “I see.”

“You have signed on as a member of the company,” Balin corrects gently, “We will not ask you to do more than go in and see. If the dragon truly lives, we need to consider our options carefully.”

***

On Durin’s day, the dwarves awaken before the sun rises and some never slept at all. Bilbo blinks as the conversations – hushed, nervous – pick up around him, and turns over. The air brushing past his face is icy and he is nice and warm underneath his thick blanket. He manages to fitfully dose until the sun comes up and bathes their camp in painfully bright light.

Instead of cooking breakfast Bombur sets out a few snacks for everybody to help themselves. But the dwarves are entirely taken by the mountain and their quest to find the secret door. Bilbo’s heart pounds heavily – should they find it; he must go and seek out the dragon. Should they not, the quest is finished. He doesn’t know what he hopes for.

Wearily he drags himself to his feet.

“How is it going?” he asks Nori who is closest.

The dwarf shrugs. “No sign of the hidden door so far.”

Ori harrumphs. “It will only be visible in moonlight, anyway.”

“And if it is not we lose our chance,” Gloin protests tersely and turns back to the rock before him. Bilbo watches him for a moment and realizes he has no idea what the dwarves are doing – some seem to caress the mountain with their hands, while others hit it with their axes.

Are they looking for cracks? As far as Bilbo can tell there are none. The rock is even and worn by the weather – nothing that would suggest tinkering.

Acknowledging he may not be able to help, Bilbo keeps to himself. He uses the time to study the map once more – but to him there’s no clue there – and cook up something for lunch. It’s not much and most dwarves pass it over for their search, but Fíli and Kíli nod gratefully and Óin sits down, complaining about being too old for this.

Thorin is enchanted by the mountain. If Bilbo understood the connecting less well, he would feel jealous. Now he merely sighs and hopes Thorin will remember the others exist at some point.

An exclamation from Bofur draws their attention shortly after noon.

“It’s here!” Bofur exclaims excitedly and waves to the others, “Here! We’ve been camping right in front of it!”

Bilbo looks over and sees an entirely unremarkable rock surface. The other dwarves gather, and some seem sceptic as well.

“There’s nothing there,” Óin points out. Balin nods, twirling his beard and Thorin’s face begins to darken.

“Not yet,” Bofur tells them undauntedly, “Because I guess Ori was right and it’s the moonlight that will activate the door. But this rock – go ahead, touch it and tell me what it’s made of.”

Gloin steps forward and knocks against it. A bit of dust trickles down. “Completely ordinary rock?” he says with a frown.

Bofur’s grin widens and Bilbo can sense them all beginning to question him. “Aye, that’s the beauty. Completely ordinary rock that will only be triggered by moonlight.”

“So if it’s moonlight magic working here,” Fíli interrupts, “How did you figure out where the door is?”

“Because the layer covering the rock looks like ordinary dust,” Bofur tells them, “But if you look closely – it’s not ordinary dust. It’s a cover material that will react to the moonlight.”

Balin now steps forward and brushes a hand past the dust. “Well, I’ll be…” he mutters, “Your stone sense has always been unparalleled.”

Bofur beams at them and slowly every dwarf steps forward. And while some obviously can’t tell the difference, once Balin and Thorin have confirmed the veracity of Bofur’s judgement, they are all happy to settle down.

When Thorin drops down next to him, Bilbo tilts his head. “So we’re waiting now?”

“Waiting again,” Thorin confirms, and he looks simultaneously relieved and anxious. “Though I have to ask – how are you feeling?”

“Me?” Bilbo echoes, confused. His wounds have long since healed and he’s not gotten sick since. “Alright, I suppose.”

Thorin gives him a small smile. “And I am glad to hear that. But I meant about the mountain. Once we open the door…”

“Ah, I see,” Bilbo nods and sighs. There is a knot of tension in his stomach but he has so far done his best to ignore it, “A bit nervous, I suppose. But I won’t back out.” Unless of course they open the door to find a raging inferno waiting for them.

Thorin shifts his weight. “Actually, I’m not certain it is a good idea. You’ve never even dealt with a dragon before or seen a dwarven place from the inside, so maybe one of us should go.”

“But not many of you have dealt with dragons, either,” Bilbo protests softly, “And this particular dragon is very, very experienced with dwarves. I think I heard a rumor dragons can recognize people by scent?”

Thorin sighs. “They can,” he admits.

“Well, then he’s have smelled any of you long before you’d even made it to him,” Bilbo replies, “He might not recognize me. And I can be very quiet, too.” And invisible, he adds to himself.

Thorin frowns unhappily. “It’s a terrible risk, still.”

Bilbo surreptitiously slides his hand over Thorin’s. “I know. And I will be careful. And I have every intention to return, but let me do this.”

Thorin turns his hand over and grasps Bilbo’s. He looks at their joined hands and then nods. “I don’t like it. But you are right.” His eyes find Bilbo’s. “Promise me you will be careful,” he asks, “Promise me you will be alright.”

Warmth spreads through Bilbo’s chest and a flush over his cheeks. The sensation of Thorin’s hand on his sends a tingle down in spine. But it’s a minuscule emotion in face of the things looming ahead.

“I will,” Bilbo promises quietly and hopes he will be able to keep his word.

They stay there for a moment longer, each lost to their own thoughts. Whatever this night may bring, Bilbo tells to himself, he will do his utmost. And once the night is over, once they live to see the sunrise, perhaps then he will allow himself to think about a future for him and Thorin.

***

Even though the dwarves are anxious by the time the first stars come out, everything goes smoothly. As Ori predicted, the moonlight triggers the hidden door and silvery lines grow visible in the area Bofur pointed out.

A sense of trepidation settles over them when Thorin reverently pushes the door open. For a moment they all stare – they have reached Erebor, they have found the hidden door. Against all badly stacked odds they made it. They have reached their goal.

Only one last act remains until the quest’s fulfillment and the act is Bilbo’s. Among many tear-eyed back pats and well-wishes he steps forward. His head spins madly, his feet move in a trance. Is there truly a dragon waiting at the end? Will he return to see his friends again?

With a deep breath, Bilbo enters the mountain. His heart pounds louder than his footfalls and he clutched the ring in his fist. Should he put it on? In case the dragon waits for him - his heart skips a beat. Dragons have ever only been creatures of legend and myth. Even after meeting Thorin, knowledge of the last dragon on Arda was merely that: knowledge. Nothing Bilbo could imagine affecting him, could fathom affecting him. Back then Erebor was but a distant dream and the dragon a nebulous notion beyond.

Now it may be only moments away. Cold sweat forms on his back as he descends deeper and deeper into the mountain. As Balin promised, the corridors are not dark, though the dim green light makes Bilbo shudder. Every rational part of him screams at him to turn back. The dwarves have offered - he can always leave reconnaissance to Nori or somebody more skilled at it.

Only the dragon might smell them and kill them on the spot.

Think of your friends, Bilbo tells himself. Just a quick glimpse at the treasury and then return safely, as Thorin had made him promise. One glimpse to figure out where Smaug is, then he will leave.

The light begins to change. Bilbo descends another flight of stairs and notes that there is now a golden hue to it. His footsteps begin to slow -

And then there is a single doorway and he realizes he has found the treasury.

For a moment, he freezes. Hovers indecisively, while around him all is silent. There is not even dust in his corridor to disturb. Nothing stirs; the air itself feels as if it had not moved in centuries.

Bilbo shivers.

Then he forces himself to step forward. Smaug must be dead or asleep - he doubts the dragon would have allowed him to approach otherwise. All he needs to do now is to ascertain which and report back to the dwarves. And maybe keep an eye out for the Arkenstone...

The thought trails off as he steps through the doorway. Before him mountains of gold extend into every direction; ceiling and walls of the vast cavern disappear into the darkness in the far, far distance and he feels a hollow laugh bubbling up in his chest.

This is not a treasury. This isn't wealth - Bilbo is a wealthy hobbit by Shire standards. This is not even richness. This is madness.

Hoards like this, Bilbo thinks in cold mesmerization, should have firmly stayed embedded in the imagination of children. Thorin has mentioned his grandfather's goldsickness - yet Bilbo has never ever imagined something like this.

How would one even figure how much gold there is? Even as he takes another step forward, the staircase leading downward vanishes into the gold, and there is nothing to help him tell just how high the gold is piled. Bilbo swallows glumly. Finding a specific stone in this is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Or perhaps, might compare if the haystack spanned the entirety of Hobbiton.

With a shake of the head he comes to a stop, wondering how to proceed. There is no trace of a dragon in sight, but no sign of the stone either. Would the dragon have chosen another spot to sleep? Is it dead and buried beneath the gold?

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip. He wouldn't even know where to begin looking - he really should have asked the dwarves for the layout of the mountain. For more information; indicators to watch out for. They'd been certain the dragon would be in the treasury - certain the dragon would be easy to find.

And isn’t it ridiculous to have a treasury filled with enough gold and precious gems to hide in entire dragon? Bilbo shudders. Faced with the mad hoard, he once again realizes that he is but a small hobbit. Even with his talent and his magic ring, he cannot find dragon or stone. So he will return to his friends for now.

Maybe they will have an idea, he tells himself. Maybe they will know what to make of Smaug’s curious absence. With a small breath of relief Bilbo bends down and scoops up a loose ruby near his feet. Something to bring back, he thinks with the smile. Turns to go. A small smile begins to tug on his lips and his steps are growing lighter -

And then something behind him shifts. A loud rumble echoes through the cavern and with deafening roar a cascade of gold clatters from the giant shape stirring in the deep bowels of the treasury..

"Well, well," a deep voice rolls and makes the mountains of gold shudder, "Are you leaving already, little thief?"

The world stops.

All blood drains from Bilbo's face. His feet are glued to the ground and for a moment his mind is utterly, devastatingly blank.

No, he thinks in despair as behind him a gargantuan body lifts itself from the gold among a roaring cacophony of falling coins and trickling jewels. No, no, no. His heart quivers, ice fills his veins and when he turns around it is to face a nightmare.

Before him, his wings spread and eyes aglow with fierce cunning, Smaug towers. A creature of legend, a leftover of bygone ages. But nothing of his cruelty and sheer magnificence has lessened, the dragon’s power is unbroken.

Bilbo clutches at the ring in his pocket. The dragon's eyes are fixed on him; he will not escape. No magic ring will save him now.

"Have you no words, little thief?" the dragon asks, an almost soothing note to his voice, "Have you been struck speechless?"

Bilbo mind screams at him in sheer, wordless despair. He's not going to survive this, but anything, anything is better than staring at his oncoming doom in frozen horror. "I ... yes," he stutters, barely even feeling his mouth move, "I had heard tales, but I ... They did you no justice."

The dragon makes a loud, guttural sound in the back of his throat and around him the gold shifts further. Smaug sounds almost pleased, yet his eyes do not stray from Bilbo for even a moment.

"So you have come to see me?" Smaug asks and stretches his giant body in one smooth, terrifying movement.

Bilbo only can nod.

"I would be charmed," the dragon replies evenly, eyes studying Bilbo closely, "if I did not think your words to be false, little liar. You came because of the treasure, did you not?"

Bilbo swallows. Dread rises in his chest and his heart races a mile a minute. "Well, it is a magnificent hoard, is it not?" he asks instead, "I will admit myself compelled."

"You would steal from me," Smaug hisses and abruptly he's close, too close and Bilbo stumbles back. His back connects with the cold marble behind him and he's truly caught. The exit is to his right, but he’s never going to make it.

"No, no," he hurries to assure, cold sweat beading his face, "I would not steal from you. I merely... There were rumors saying you were dead."

The dragon stills. Huffs and a cloud of hot, fetid breath hits Bilbo’s face. "Dead," Smaug echoes, "Dead. Certainly not. But what do fools know of dragons?" His next huff smells of brimstone and rotting flesh and Bilbo’s stomach twists violently.

"Well, little thief," Smaug hums, "Consider me interested. Who told you of my death and where do you come from?"

His shirt sticks to his sweat-covered back. Bilbo laughs nervously. "Well, it was a rumor. I don't know where it originated but it may have changed before it reached my ears."

The dragon tilts his head elegantly. "So where did you come from?" A large claw idly trails through the gold, sending coins and jewels flying and Bilbo gulps when a large coin hits the ground near his feet.

"Far, far away," Bilbo replies evasively, his heart in his throat. "I traveled months to reach the mountain. Through forests, over hills and across water."

Smaug hums again, feigning curiosity. "And did you travel all the way alone, little thief? You seem awfully small to have crossed such a distance."

Bilbo shifts his weight. Will Smaug burn him to a crisp or simply gobble him up whole? What will the dragon make of his words? "I ... I travelled with others. There are always people moving," he stammers.

"And might those others have been dwarves?" Smaug asks, voice deceptively gentle. But Bilbo's heart drops even further - he's done for. Smaug has seen through his ruse - or maybe the dragon has known they were there all along.

"Yes, they were," Bilbo attempts one last desperate deception, "Though they left me behind in Rivendell."

It's not lie. He did not set out with the others, and maybe, maybe Smaug will -

The dragon chuckles, but deep in his chest an orange glow begins to form. "Oh, you are not lying, but that scent is much fresher. In fact, I would hazard you were with them until recently. Are they waiting for you on the outside?"

Bilbo’s poor heart flutters in panic. His palm must have ring-shaped indent by now, but the magic ring is all but useless. Instead he forces himself to ready his power - a last, insane gambit.

"Oh no, no," Bilbo replies in faux innocence, "I came alone. Why? Are there dwarves outside?"

Smaug's expression darkens. "Do not take me for a fool!" he hisses and the mountains of gold shiver. Beneath Bilbo's feet the ground vibrates. "You came with dwarves! And they sent you in here - to spy!"

Smaug reels back, revealing his fearsome size. "Or perhaps," Smaug contemplates, eyes glittering with mad cunning, "Not to spy - but as a burglar. Tell me, were you sent to steal? Not that worthless gem you took, foolish thief. But another one, one special to all dwarves."

And with an easy swipe of a giant claw Smaug swipes back a lawyer of gold and fabric. Beneath it lays the most beautiful stone Bilbo has ever laid eyes on. It shines with its own, magical light, a hue between blue and white and the light of a thousand stars. For a moment he forgets the world - until Smaug shifts his weight.

"Tell me, little thief," Smaug whispers, "Are you willing to give your life for this?"

Bilbo forces his gaping jaw shut and returns his eyes to Smaug. The dragon is watching him closely - and in stepping back has revealed the remainder of a broken pillar hanging from the ceiling above. The stonework is massive -

Perhaps -

It’s mad. Mad, mad, mad. Madder than even this great hoard. He’s a hobbit, no legendary warrior -

And yet. His ring will not help him. The dragon is too quick - but as Bilbo reaches out with his power and wraps it around the stone - all he needs is a short moment.

"It is a cursed gem, little thief," Smaug continues, weaving magic into his voice again, "Many have lost their lives for it. The dwarves do not mind that, of course. To them this stone is worth all lives they can spare. And yours will just be another one to be added to their tally."

No, a part of Bilbo thinks decisively, before the dragon spell can even fully wrap around him. Thorin was hesitant to allow him down. The others would have gone with him had he but asked. Dwarven history may be riddled with wars fought over stones and riches, but so are men's and elves. And this does not make the affection he has for his companions any less true.

No, he will fight the dragon, Bilbo decides and swallows. And perhaps be another name of those that died in dragon fire. But he will fight. So while one part of his power begins to surreptitiously tear off the remaining pillar, he raises his hand and gestures for the Arkenstone.

"Perhaps, oh Smaug the Mighty," Bilbo states and his voice sound strangely even, "The gem cursed you, too."

And the Arkenstone rises from beneath Smaug's claws into midair. For a moment the dragon hovers, spell-bound, eyes widened with surprise. Then Bilbo makes to move the stone toward him and with a ground-shaking roar Smaug launches himself forward.

He never reaches Bilbo, since at that moment Bilbo lets go of the pillar and several tons of massive brickwork hit the dragon square on the back. Among a deafening cacophony the dragon collapses into the gold, the stones crumble and the entire hall shakes and shivers. A shower of gold explodes, coins flying everywhere and Bilbo catches the Arkenstone and sprints to the door. Behind him Smaug howls and rages, struggling up. Bilbo doesn't know if he'll make it, expecting flames to hit him every instant, only hears the nightmare rage behind him, but then he's through the doorway and runs faster than he ever has. Up the stairs and into the corridors that are too small for the dragon, all while the ground shakes with Smaug's fury.

He stumbles up, sweat-soaked and dizzy with fear and elation. Gasping for breath he collapses the moment he's outside, deaf to the concerned questions and shouts of his friends.Óin yells at them to step back and sinks down beside him and Bofur has a hand on his shoulder. Thorin is watching him with concern, Gloin asks after the dragon and Fíli wants to know if he is alright.

They must know, Bilbo thinks frantically. He's made the dragon angry. Smaug will come, he must warn them, but he can't get enough air to speak. His words are frozen in his throat and his entire body trembles violently.

He barely manages to unclench his fist and the Arkenstone falls from his sleeve. It rolls across the ground, stops in the dust, still shining as beautiful as before.

"Is that...?" Kíli whispers reverently.

"The Arkenstone," Thorin gasps and steps forward to carefully scope up the stone. Bilbo is almost jealous, if he wasn't still trying to make his mouth work again. "You found it," he turns to Bilbo with a disbelieving smile, "You really -"

"What about the dragon?" Dori inquires urgently, "We heard -"

At that moment a roar like an earthquake shakes the mountain. Dust flies up from the ground. The stone beneath them trembles.

"I'm afraid," Bilbo forced out of his aching throat, "I made him angry."

Kíli and Fíli eye him as if he'd just grown a second head. Balin shakes his head with a sigh, while Ori eventually asks, "What did you do?"

His heart rate begins to slow down even though he knows the worst must yet come. Bilbo doubts Smaug will allow them to leave.

"Stole from him," Bilbo replies as his body shudders violently, "He didn't mean to let me have the Arkenstone. Also, he knows you are here."

"Well," Dwalin mutters, his face pale, "Well."

"Good we stocked up on weapons in Laketown," Nori comments drily.

Bilbo thinks about Smaug's thick, leathery skin. And in this moment wonders if he has unwittingly doomed his friends to death. Despair wells up in his chest anew, and a wave of nausea hits him.

"Kíli, lend me your second bow," Thorin states quietly, "there used to be a rumor - that there is a spot under his breast where his scales are not as hard. Aim for that."

They are hopelessly outclassed against a dragon. Within the mountain there had been cracks to hide, corridors that Smaug could not go through. Here, they are out in the open. Bile rises in Bilbo’s throat.

"We should go inside," Ori suggest, "Smaug won't fit into the smaller corridors. And if we go deep enough his flames should not reach us either."

"They will at some point," Dwalin responds darkly, "if the smoke doesn't kill us first."

Bilbo shivers and fights his unsettled stomach. The sweat on his back starts to cool and his mind races. He never meant to endanger his friends, never meant for Thorin to wear this look. Grim determination is written across his face, and it is mirrored in Balin's expression.

"Let's make it a decent last stand," Balin suggest calmly, "And maybe you lads make it. Once we engage Smaug you run. The dragon can't be in two places at once, after all."

Fíli and Kíli pale. They should never look like this, Bilbo thinks, they shouldn’t be facing death. His chest tightens - he should have thought about the consequences before bringing down the pillar on Smaug. Should have anticipated the outcome.

Should have stayed until one of them died.

Now they all will pay the price for Bilbo's ill thought-out plan. He swallows and struggle to his feet against his body’s protests.

"You go and hide with the lads," Gloin tells him with a companionable pat.

He shakes his head, while Kíli silently sets an arrow to his bow. "I'll stay and fight," the lad tells them, "I'm an archer - I may have a chance."

"If you stay, I'm staying as well!" Fíli exclaims and Ori nods along. Kíli looks at them pleadingly, shakes his head. "No," he says, "No, Fíli, you need to tell mother -“

"You all go," Bilbo yells at them, "I made Smaug angry - he'll go after me first. It's not far to the treasury and you know what the mountain's like on the inside - you'll find another way out. I'll fight -"

"The dragon?" Dwalin ends the sentence with a disbelieving shake of his head, "No, Master Baggins, even given your unusual gift, you cannot take on a dragon on your own."

"I just stalled him and gave him the slip!" Bilbo exclaims, "If I had stayed -"

He might have killed it, but Thorin firmly shakes his head. "No," he decides, "Out of question. You fulfilled all your obligations and I will not see you perish needlessly. Go back to your home and find your peace."

The shadow of a smile is heart-breaking. Bilbo's eyes begin to burn.

"And maybe remember us?" Fíli suggests with a wry smile.

"Yes, we need somebody to recall the tale," Ori adds.

Gloin shrugs. "Somebody needs to tell my wife."

"And our mother," Kíli says.

Bofur looks at his family and turns to Bilbo. "We're all here. Nobody's going to miss us. Would be nice if you remembered, though."

It's too much. Abruptly Bilbo grows aware of wetness trickling down his face, and he knows what heartbreak feels like. Understands that since his parents passed he has never loved somebody as much as he loves these dwarves.

And he will not let them die. Not as long as there is still breath in his body.

Before he can say anything, down below the mountain the gate explodes outward. In a shower of rocks and steam Smaug dashes out, wings fluttering oddly and his roar echoes across the landscape. Under their feet the mountain trembles and shivers and Bilbo takes a breath and steps forward.

Just as Smaug turns his head toward them.

An arrow whisks past him and somebody grabs hold of his sleeve, shouting at him to run, to hide.

"No," Bilbo declares, "No!"

He will not hide. He will to allow his friends to die. Not as long as there is strength left in his body. So he flings out his will and the statue next to Smaug collapses, spraying the dragon with rubble and dust. An angry roar and then the beast disappears within the cloud, but Bilbo is not fool enough to think the battle over.

His body throbs in protest. Moving the statue took out a lot of him, and he doubts even the augmentation of his magic ring will suffice. He must try.

"Good move, Bilbo!" Fíli shouts with forced cheer and Bilbo wants to scream at him to run. He can't take his eyes from the billowing dust cloud, and the sound of beating wings makes him shudder.

"Take aim!" Thorin shouts the moment Smaug's silhouette grows visible. Of course the dragon's sense of smell is fantastic. Of course he could tell their location even when blinded by dust and debris.

And there are no other conveniently large chunks of rocks nearby. Bilbo panics, reaches for the mountain, invisible tendrils of power racing over the rocky surface, while Kíli fires an arrow.

It hits Smaug and bounces off uselessly. "Aim for the eyes!" Dwalin shouts, shifting on the balls of his feet, but Smaug merely tilts his head. Thorin's arrow goes past and the dragon is close, too close and Bilbo can make out the unholy glow of fire spreading through Smaug's belly.

Somebody next to him takes a deep breath.

Kíli fires another arrow. It bounces off Smaug's fearsome snout. The dragon crackles. "You will d -"

Desperation drives Bilbo to wrap his power around Smaug's wing and pull. Abruptly the dragon tilts to the side, sentence broken off and with a howl tears its wing from Bilbo's grasp. Something in Bilbo's chest shifts.

He's gasping for air, he realizes while Smaug fights to regain equilibrium in midair. The dragon is too strong, too heavy - ten times the size of a troll at least. This is insane.

This will be death.

And a strange sense of acceptance spreads through Bilbo. He doesn't want to die. But if he can make a difference - if he can ascertain that his friends have a chance - then he will do whatever he can.

"Run," he hisses at them and this time takes hold of Smaug's left leg. He can't move the entire dragon, but he can pull him down, making sure he can't reach them up here. Down and away, toward the lake.

"Bilbo!" Somebody exclaims and a hand lands on his shoulder. Bilbo's hold on the dragon breaks and the beast howl with fury.

"You will burn!" he roars, the unnatural shout audible far and wide, "you all will burn!"

"Bilbo, you're bleeding!" And that's Fíli hovering next to him, flanked by Bofur and Bifur, concern marring their faces. Kíli steps forward, taking aim at the approaching, mad dragon, face pale and determined.

Thorin gives Bilbo a grateful look, before turning back to their enemy. Run, Bilbo wants to scream, you need to run. Instead he wipes ineffectively at his nose, ignoring the red he smears over his hands and brushes past Fíli and the others.

Under the starry sky, the lake glitters calmly. He takes a deep breath. Now he knows how to do it. His body shakes with the strain of holding himself upright. Black flickers on the edges of his vision.

Smaug roars, beyond words with fury, but Bilbo raises his arm and with every ounce of power he possesses envelopes the entire dragon. His power stretches across the giant body, forming a spider's net of thin but deadly strings and there is terror in Smaug’s howls. It's not the beating of his wings keeping him airborne, not the power of a majestic creature of another age steering him. The will of a small, inconsequential hobbit who clutches onto a magic ring for life and who tastes copper in his mouth as he forces the dragon down. And down.

Down into the dark, murky waters of the long lake, even though his heart shudders and struggles with every beat, and Fíli is screaming at him to stop the madness. He feels Smaug fight him, sees the Lake steam and bubble, feels his pulse slowing as every last bit of power drains from him.

And then it's gone. The will fighting his hold vanishes. The lake calms and his grasp slips.

It's done, Bilbo thinks, and there is relief welling up in his chest even as his poor heart falters. Relief and a spark of happiness and he knows that his friends will live. He can close his eyes now.


	14. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo awakens. They have won the mountain and everything should be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter ahead! No warnings, but things will go a bit creepy from here for this and the next chapter.

He remains unconscious for a long, long time. Darkness envelops him in a firm, warm embrace and when he first wakes it is to a bone-deep weariness and confusion. Shouldn't he be dead, he wonders? Is this what comes after?

But then the world fades again and he drifts.

It could be months or days passing, but where he is time has no meaning. Only when light begins to filter in and sounds follow, his mind slowly begins to move again.

Everything hurts. His body is one giant sore and when he reaches for the spot underneath his heart a sharp spike of pain races through him. He gasps for air, hears somebody shout his name - but his vision has gone black again.

***

When he returns to consciousness the next time, he makes sure not to move. But even lying still he can sense his body aching. The taste of copper is gone, his lips are dry and cracked. He lies on something soft and a warm blanket is pulled up to his chest. 

Carefully he shifts his limbs. First his fingers, then he wriggles his toes. When no sudden bout of pain assaults him, he tries to move his entire arm. He can barely lift it from the mattress - it seems to weight tons now and he heaves for air. Darkness flutters on the edges of his vision, but Bilbo doesn’t want to pass out again – some primal instinct of urgency echoes in his bones – and he fights it.

Then abruptly something moves in the background, though to him it’s a whirlpool of blurred colors. His heartbeat spikes, and there might be shouting, but he doesn’t understand what is happening – and instinctively tries to reach out with his power –

Something in his chest twists violently, his entire body spasms.

And Bilbo is unconscious again.

***

Waking up is a painful, slow process spread out over several days. It grows easier when one of the dwarves manages to reassure him that he is safe – and they are all safe, the dragon is dead – and the panic still dwelling in Bilbo’s heart subsides.

He’s not conscious long enough to hear the entire story then. At first he barely even remembers Smaug – those memories come back in a vicious nightmare. In turn Bilbo can scarcely believe something that terrifying could have occurred. Or that he may have been mad enough to take on a dragon.

“Well, we wouldn’t know what occurred inside the mountain, Bilbo,” Fili tells him, seated next to his bed, “Only what you told us.”

“And that wasn’t much,” Kili adds. He’s sharpening arrows he must have found somewhere. They look well-made, but dulled with age. Óin putters around in the background, muttering about preservatives and dragons.

Bilbo gives the brothers a faint smile. “It probably wasn’t all that memorable.”

“You made that dragon mad. I’m certain it was,” Fili insists.

Kili leans forward. “And you should remember. You know, otherwise we will just make up something for Ori to put into the chronic.”

He’d be laughing if his entire body wasn’t too sore still. Óin apparently senses that, because he wanders over and tells the two young dwarves to leave – their hobbit needs to rest, though this marks the first time Bilbo is actually awake to watch them go.

And wonder why their smiles seemed sad under the surface.

After all, from what he has learned so far, the mountain is reclaimed. According to Balin they are all actually inside the mountain and have found several stores still intact and usable – the damage to the treasury and entrance, of course, is immeasurable, but Bilbo doesn’t think it’s the damage that lies heavy on his friends.

He is, for the time being, too tired to think further upon it.

Over the next few days he learns that he almost gave them all an apoplexy and it took Óin and Thorin a dangerously long amount of time to restart his heart. Bilbo would rather not think on how close he came to dying – it felt worth it at that time, though he still can’t use his power without feeling pain.

Óin counsels him against using his power at all if not necessary and Dori returns with his mended coat. Bilbo is both glad to have it back and glad to find his magic ring still in its pocket. The only dwarf Bilbo doesn’t see during his early convalescence is Thorin.

When he asks, Fili looks away and Gloin shrugs. “He’s dealing with politics,” Dwalin offers.

The politics, Bilbo learns, are the Master of Laketown and his demands. The day after the dragon had died the Master had turned up with a small retinue, requesting payment – which Thorin had denied. Bilbo doesn’t find out for what the Master demanded payment of why Thorin denied it – but his recovery does not allow him to think too long on it.

***

It’s a soft noise or perhaps a movement that wakes him. Bilbo blinks, sleepily. The fire has burned low and he still feels tired, so it must be in the middle of the night. He’s about to turn over, when the noise returns and this time Bilbo glances up.

Silhouetted by the fire’s glow, Thorin watches him. His expression half-shadowed by the golden crown he wears and the heavy fur cloak turns his figure even more intimidating.

“Thorin?” Bilbo mumbles and fully detracts himself from his pillow. His body gives a throb as he makes to push himself up – he’s yet far from having regained his full strength.

Just when the silence begins to stretch Thorin exhales and draws closer. “You look so pale,” the King says and the hand that reaches out to touch Bilbo’s hair trembles, “I thought I had lost you.”

Bilbo swallows down the fact that he had thought himself done for, too, and instead tries to smile as brightly as possible. “Well, I did take on a dragon.”

Thorin doesn’t react to the humor at all. “And you truly should not have. But I will make sure you will not get into such a situation again.”

It’s a promise and somehow it makes Bilbo feel uneasy. But it might just be the late hour playing on his imagination. “I think I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Sleep now,” Thorin tells him and leaves before Bilbo can reply. Even after the echo of his footsteps has faded, Bilbo’s gaze remains fixed on the door.

Something felt strange.


	15. A creeping shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo continues to get better, while around him the situation grows more tense. Thorin, too, seems utterly unfamiliar now, so Bilbo tries to reach out to him best as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, a fade-to-black scene at the end. But that's it. :)
> 
> Also, art!!!! [Teaxdragon](www.teaxdragon.tumblr.com) has posted the [first of her amazing artworks!](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/119748164337/hobbit-big-bang-2015-shufutu-zailu-by) The encounter with the wraith from chapter 10!

When Bilbo wakes hours later, however, he isn’t sure if he hasn’t dreamed the encounter. Thorin’s behaviour rings absurd to his now-awake mind, but does start to wonder: why hasn’t Thorin come to visit? Is he so busy with politics? Lost all interest in his burglar now that the quest has been fulfilled?

Or is it something else that also casts its shadow over everybody? A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine and he resolves to find answers. He has rested enough.

His first visitor of the day, as always, is Óin. The dwarf smiles a little and tells Bilbo he’s free to get up. “You hobbit are remarkably quick to recover,” Óin tells him, “Though I really wasn’t certain you would, for a time. There’s no documentation of any case even remotely like yours and I’m still not sure if you might not have damaged yourself for good.”

Bilbo blinks. He feels almost normal again today – even his power hums smoothly in that spot underneath his heart and he wonders if he can risk utilizing it again. “How so?” he asks while Óin takes a quick look at his scar. The wound has healed well, the scar only the faintest hue of red.

“Your heart,” Óin tells him, “It did stop for a moment there. And your heartbeat was irregular during those first days. Could’ve stopped anytime.”

He taps Bilbo’s chest lightly. Bilbo nods – he’d like to tell Óin and the others they needn’t have worried. But in truth, he’d not expected to wake up.

“So next time make sure you stop early enough,” Óin tells him, “Wouldn’t do for the legendary dragon slayer to die of a heart-attack.”

He straightens and declares Bilbo fine so far. The hobbit is still stuck on his words. “… legendary dragon slayer?”

“Of course,” Óin says cheerfully, “Ori’s gathering the materials to write the story, and I think the boys were about to write home. Your name will be known all over Arda. Among the dwarves and a fair number of others, too, I believe.”

Bilbo blinks. That is not something he has thought of. “Err,” is all he manages in reply.

Óin grins at him and pats his shoulder. “Well, you can talk to them yourself. They said they wanted to drop by sometime this morning.”

And with that Óin exits.

For a moment Bilbo remains staring sightless at the far wall – one decorated by geometric carvings, inlaid with gold and precious gems and generally as pompous as everything else in this room. Then he returns to button up his shirt with a shake of his head and slides off the bed.

He’s been taking small steps and even been walking outside of his chambers since a few days ago. Óin’s been hesitant to allow it, but as beautiful as his room is, Bilbo enjoys being able to move on his own now.

He also discovered a closet filled with shirts and coats. All have probably belonged to somebody else before and have been quickly adjusted to fit his size; however Bilbo is glad to wear something other than his traveling clothes. Even if some of the garments are a bit too jewel-studded and outrageous to his taste.

A short knock sounds before the door flies open and two grinning dwarves march in.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims brightly, “You’re up!” He flings out his arm but stops an arm’s length away from Bilbo, who had already braced for being enthusiastically hugged.

“Can I…?” Kili asks, studying Bilbo from head to two as if looking for hidden injuries.

Bilbo snorts and nods. Really, he thinks as his feet leave the ground because Kili seems to believe a good hug requires strength more than anything, he’s not so fragile that he’s going to deny himself or his friends this comfort. Even if his ribs creak in protest.

Behind Kili’s shoulder Fili waves a cheerful hello, though Bilbo catches sight of dark shadows underneath his eyes. Somehow his smile looks pale, too, and Bilbo once again is stuck by the notion that something isn’t alright.

“How are you two?” he asks when Kili sets him down again.

“Quite fine,” Kili replies and Fili nods along. A part of Bilbo wants to question it, but he eventually decides against it.

“How are the others?” he asks instead, “Busy cleaning up after the dragon?”

“You wouldn’t believe how much of a mess he left behind,” Kili exclaims dramatically, “The treasury is so thoroughly damaged, Balin was at first worried it could collapse.”

“Really?” Bilbo guiltily wonders if his own fight against Smaug might have added to that.  

Fili nods. “Quite. Bofur declared it stable in the end, but it’s really something we should have thought about before sending you down there.”

Bilbo shrugs helplessly. “Well, everything is fine?” It did not, truly, but the structural integrity of the treasury was Bilbo’s least concern. He can still smell Smaug’s hot, fetid breath.

Kili purses his lips and Fili takes a step closer. At this distance Bilbo has to tilt back his head and look up to him.

“I wouldn’t call what happened to you fine, Bilbo,” he says softly, “It was foolish of us to send you in without a plan. We –“

“Fili,” Bilbo interrupts, firmly. He’ll not allow the young dwarves to blame themselves - the onus to come up with decent plan rested with Thorin, Balin and himself. “Looking back, yes, it was foolish. Then again, the entire quest would seem foolish and my own actions certainly were not entirely ration either. You know, I could have tried to run earlier…”

“What happened while in there, Bilbo?” Kili asks, shifting his weight from one foot onto the other, “You said something about making Smaug angry, but we never heard the rest. Was he waiting for you?”

With a jolt Bilbo realizes that the dwarves have yet to hear the full story. Since he tumbled out of the mountain, knowing Smaug would follow any moment, he’s never seen all his dwarves together.

“I think so, yes,” Bilbo replies. The memory of stepping into the large treasure hoard still sends a shiver down his spine. “It was all silent. So I went inside, looked around and determined that I had no idea where to even begin searching.”

He gives a wry smile as he recalls his confidence that the dragon at least wasn’t there. “Fairly soon I realized that I simply didn’t know how to proceed and decided that I had best go and ask you for instructions. On a whim I picked up a ruby, turned to leave. Which was when Smaug emerged."

The boys look at him with wide eyes. “He had been hiding?” Kili asks.

Bilbo nods. “Yes. I thought he was dead or gone because I hadn’t seen a hint of him. And suddenly there’s that loud noise and the dragon starts speaking.”

“That must have been scary,” Kili comments breathlessly. Fili nods, pale.

Scary doesn’t even begin to cover it, Bilbo thinks. Terrifying beyond reason, perhaps. But what has been burned into his mind is the utter, dead blankness of his mind in that moment.

To Kili he says: “Quite so.”

“It’s a miracle you managed to escape, then,” Fili compliments.

Bilbo tugs the sleeves of his coat down self-consciously. “Maybe,” he agrees, “But Smaug knew he had me caught. So he began asking questions…”

“What?” Kili bursts out. “Why would he – “

“Dragons are known to be curious,” Fili comments thoughtfully, “Might that have been the reason?” His pallor remains terrible, but Bilbo can tell his mind has started moving. Kili clings on to the tale, so Bilbo continues.

“Yes, that. He had known we were coming and I think enjoyed seeing me flustered,” he shrugs, “But in doing that he allowed me to come up with a plan.”

“What did you do?” Fili asks, at the same time Kili exclaims: “He knew?!”

Bilbo nods, remembering well his own terror. “He told me he could smell your scent on me. I tried to throw him off, but he accurately guesses you were waiting outside.”

“From the scent?” Kili echoes, “That alone?”

Bilbo is uncertain what Kili is asking, but Fili tilts his head. “Dragon are known to possess highly astute senses. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had smelled and heard us coming.”

“And where else might he have known it from?” Bilbo adds, rhetorically. Because that nebulous idea of the dragon being connected to Gandalf’s fears, the rumors about a necromancer and evil brewing is simply untenable.

Fili draws him from his dark thoughts. “We only heard a loud noise and then the dragon began roaring.”

Bilbo feels his lips twitch. “I brought down one of the pillars on top of him.” Smaug hadn’t expected that. “He was gloating about having the Arkenstone. So I used my power to nick it and simultaneously collapsed a pillar. And ran for it.”

Kili’s jaw drops and his eyes sparkle, and Bilbo has to admit in retelling the tale does have a certain ring to it. Fili claps his shoulder with a shake of the head. “You really are something else, you know that.”

Bilbo shifts his weight on his feet and doesn’t quite know what to say. Because even the proper Baggins side to his mind realizes that no normal being would have engaged a dragon. The fact that he lived to tell the tale makes it all even more extraordinary.

He doesn’t know if he’d not rather have his normality back, though.

“Ori’s already starting the account. Though it will be a while still until he gets to the tale of the quest – he’s chronicling the coming of Smaug right now,” Fili is saying.

Bilbo decides that perhaps he will always miss the tranquility of his home. Maybe he is making a mistake. But he doesn’t regret taking on the dragon. Not when any other ending to this tale would have seen his friends dead.

“So you’ve discovered the library, then?” Bilbo asks instead.

Kili nods wryly. “It’s grand and dark and dusty."

Fili replies slightly more diplomatic. “You would enjoy it, I believe. They used to say it rivals even Rivendell’s library.”

And the scholarly part of Bilbo rises its long-dormant head. “Do you think I could see it?”

“Of course,” Kili says, “I promised Ori we would meet him for lunch, anyway.”

Fili is slightly wary of Bilbo’s health. But the hobbit assures him he’s fine and if not, well, he has two strong and healthy dwarves to carry him back to his bed. When that makes Fili look even more disinclined to agree, Bilbo tells him he’ll go insane if he has to stare at the ceiling any longer. And in order to emphasize his point lifts Fili in the air with his power for a split moment.

“Alright, alright,” Fili agrees while Kili giggles. Bilbo smiles brightly – because his power is truly back to normal. He’s not even felt Fili’s weight. Lifting him had taken less than a split moment of concentration.

There’s a cheerful spring to his step when he follows the two out into the corridor. Erebor is unfamiliar, still, and under other circumstances Bilbo would certainly have perceived the corridors as eerie. Now he sees their beauty and the skill that went into making them.

He’s looking forward to exploring this lost kingdom. To look on the statues and tapestries, learn more of their histories. The quest has reawakened that curious side of him he had thought a symptom of childhood.

“You know,” Kili says after a moment and Bilbo turns to look at him instead of studying the wide hall they are wandering through, “I was thinking. When we spoke in Rivendell, you said there were limits to your power.”

Bilbo nods.

“Now, from what you said, Smaug should have been too … difficult. And yes, I know, you almost died. But when it comes down to it, he is dead and you live,” Kili continues, “So could it be that you have gotten more powerful?”

Bilbo immediately thinks of his magic ring. Of course –

But that’s not all. Even if he discounts the ring, his powers seem to have grown. Hadn’t he realized earlier how easily he had been able to reach out to Fili and lift him?

“Perhaps,” he admits with a small smile.

“Or maybe they were always this strong and you didn’t know because you weren’t using them,” Fili suggests.

Bilbo shrugs. “Also a possibility.” Though he thinks it’s more likely that his powers have indeed grown. He’d not have dared to even dream of facing Smaug back when he left Bag End – now he can look at staircase stretching before them and feel as if he could easily heft the entire construct up in the air.

It’s definitely a change. Whether for good or evil he still doesn’t know, though he will cling to Galadriel’s words. If she had deemed him necessary for Thorin to succeed, then the growth of his power should not herald any ill turns.

He’s drawn from his thoughts when Fili announces that they have arrived. Kili pushes open a heavy stone door, and while Bilbo’s eyes still adjust, something clatters to the ground and Ori cheerfully exclaims: “Bilbo!”

***

Time until lunch passes quickly. Bilbo marvels at the library – the size of a small vertical town, floor upon floor of books. Even the dwarves do not quite know all the books that are kept here. Small fires and spilled ink have rendered the earliest records illegible, and no attempt at cataloging all the books has yet been completed.

“They suspect some of the lost texts are still here,” Kili informs Bilbo.

Ori nods. “It’s actually very likely. When Erebor was settled, they brought many of their books along and made attempts at purchasing those scripts they did not own.”

Bilbo looks with wide eyes at the incredible amounts of scholarship. Some of the tomes look old enough to predate even the second age. These books may have been written by the hand of legends. The world, he thinks once again, is a wider place than any scholarly engagements in the Shire have ever taught him.

“It’s amazing,” he declares for what is perhaps the tenth time this morning.

Ori grins and Kili giggles and Bilbo’s heart warms. There’s no denying the shadows that still hang over all their faces, but he enjoys how laughter chases away the lingering darkness.

They wander past another section and Ori points to a heavy door. “Behind that is the precious books section. I’m somewhat surprised Smaug didn’t get to it, but perhaps it wasn’t interesting to him.”

“Precious as in made from precious materials or rare and important books?” Bilbo asks.

“Both,” Ori says, “But mostly those made from precious materials.”

“Our ancestors used to make extravagant editions of the most important books,” Fili explains.

“Or their favorites,” Kili adds somewhat glumly, “Which then ended up being declared important.”

When Fili raises an eyebrow Kili petulantly kicks at the dust. “You can’t tell me that second age sonnets to an amethyst collection is of any importance!” he exclaims.

Fili’s lips twitch and Ori hides a giggle in a cough. “You are aware,” he asks, “The amethyst is a metaphor?”

Kili blinks. And blinks again. And blushes. “Oh. Oh. Oh, I see,” he stammers, “Right. And that… really. Balin made us read that!”

“The perils of classical literature,” Bilbo declares. He’s struggled his way through enough collections of elvish and other poetry to realize that sometimes the authors weren’t really talking about little birds or fruits.

The young dwarves laugh and before long they’re involved in a cheerful discussion surrounding works of literary fame and their more scandalous interpretations. Ori is a true well of knowledge when it comes to deciphering the temporary shifting meaning of words and Bilbo can at least offer some input on Sindarin translations.

They’re still giggling when the sound of heavy footsteps shuts them up. Thorin marches into the library, his face dark.

“What are you doing?” he asks his nephews angrily, “Have I not told you not to keep the others from work? You should have been in the treasury ages ago!”

“And you,” he turns to Bilbo, “I would have expected you to not recklessly risk your health!”

He rounds on his nephews again. “Why did you not stop him? You were there when Óin fought to revive him! You should know better!”

Fili and Kili have grown pale. Ori nervously bites his lower lip and Bilbo is frozen to the spot. Whatever happened to send Thorin into such a temper? This is not the dwarf he remembers – this is worse than the Thorin that marched into Bag End.

Where is the dwarf he explored Dale with?

“Thorin,” Bilbo says seriously, “Your nephews did not compel me to do anything I did not want to.” Because he can’t stand the downtrodden expressions on their faces – not after they finally started getting laugh lines.

“And I believe I am capable of evaluating my own condition. I spoke to Óin this morning and have been on my feet for a while already, so I don’t see –“

Thorin shakes his head. His eyes find Bilbo and there’s a feverish fire in them. “And yet you risk your life carelessly. Fili, Kili, Gloin waits for you! Go!”

They incline their heads obediently, and Bilbo catches Kili mouthing a “later” toward him with a brave smile. Fili casts a glare toward his uncle. And Bilbo recalls Thorin’s visit from night before with a shudder.

Ori is trying hard to fade into the background, but Thorin barely seems to notice him anyway.

“Come with me, Bilbo,” he says and it’s not a request.

Even though he is wary, Bilbo decides to follow. Perhaps there will be some explanation for Thorin’s odd behavior.

He waits until they are in an empty corridor.

“Thorin,” he asks, keeping his voice even, “What happened?”

“Happened?” Thorin echoes and slows his steps so Bilbo can walk next to him. “Nothing happened. Nothing important, anyway.”

Bilbo tilts his head, uneasy at the obvious attempt at evasion. “Indulge me.”

Thorin smiles at him, though it barely reaches his eyes. “Nothing for you to worry about. The Master sent an envoy to tell us they’re expecting to be repaid for the damages the dragon dealt to Dale.”

Thorin adds nothing further and over the strange echo of their footsteps Bilbo has to ask: “And? Will you?”

Thorin snorts. “Certainly not. They abandoned my people – did you know Laketown did not allow any dwarves to even pass through during the first decades? No, I will not be repaying traitors.”

A dark note swings in his voice and Bilbo shudders. It’s a harsh judgement, he thinks to himself, but these grievances are older than he is. The Master’s request probably was ill-timed on top, so perhaps in a few months the issue may be negotiated anew.

He pushes the matter aside.

“You seem tense,” he says to Thorin instead.

Thorin sighs and seems to deflate a bit under his black and gold fur coat. The royal colors paint him even more inapproachable than usual. “I’m nervous, yes. The Master’s envoy only confirmed what I feared – they desire my gold.”

Bilbo blinks. “It’s a lot of gold,” he offers and forces his tone to be light.

“And yet it’s not any gold but the treasure of Erebor,” Thorin replies fiercely, “And I will not abandon it. Not one coin.”

Bilbo blinks and notices the soft golden glow the light begins to take. So Thorin is leading them toward the treasury after all.

“It is dear to me,” Thorin continues, and then finally notices the bewilderment showing on Bilbo’s expression. “You might not understand. But this gold – this gold is special.”

With a shrug Bilbo turns to the nearest fork in the corridors. “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ll head back, then.”

“No, no,” Thorin stops him and reaches out, catching Bilbo by the arm, “No, I need you to come with me.”

“But you-” Bilbo begins, confused, because just a moment ago Thorin told him to rest.

“That won’t be a problem,” Thorin promises, “There are ample places to rest. I would not dare to let anything happen to you!”

And that may be part of the problem, Bilbo thinks while his stomach is sinking. A part of him wonders if he should try dropping one of the large golden pots on Thorin’s head.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Thorin vows feverishly, “But you need to understand, I cannot abandon the gold either. Somebody might take it – take my due!”

“Who should take it?” Bilbo interrupts, “Thorin, we are in your kingdom! And we may be only fourteen, but somebody would notice if somebody tried to sneak in and steal something!”

Not to mention that the sheer amount of gold and treasure might throw any prospective thief into desperation.

Thorin says nothing. Instead he shakes his head. “I cannot leave it alone.”

He starts to walk again without relinquishing his grip on Bilbo’s arm. The hobbit lets himself reluctantly be dragged along. His mind whirls with the implication and he shivers. Does Thorin truly not trust his company? The idea should be ridiculous. And yet Bilbo dares not to ask Thorin that question because he fears the answer.

***

The day passes slowly.

Thorin did not lie when he promised Bilbo comfortable quarters. Somewhere among the sea of gold he discovered a jewel-studded divan, decked out with pillows and blankets in rich fabrics. Bilbo feels strange when he climbs upon it – like that one time his cousins made him play the damsel in distress – and he doesn’t like it. The soft clinking sound coupled with the fragments of conversations drifting over lulls him into slumber soon enough, however.

When he wakes up the treasury is empty except for Thorin and him.

“What’s the hour?” he inquires as he pushes back the blanket.

“Past dinner,” Thorin offers, “But I asked Bombur to save something for you.”

“You should have woken me,” Bilbo complains and stretches, “You didn’t have to wait for me to wake up.”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, no,” he says quietly, “I will stay here. And…” He glances toward Bilbo, almost shy, “I was hoping you would stay, too.”

Bilbo is floored. For a moment his mouth works without a sound emerging – his mind races. Is this based on what happened in Dale? Is Thorin inviting him when he seemed to have all but forgotten about that before?

“I… yes,” he stutters, because his treacherous heart will not even contemplate refusing, “But … you didn’t come to see me once.”

Thorin apparently doesn’t notice the absolute non-sequitur. Instead the King under the Mountain sighs gravely. “I came when I could,” he admits and Bilbo guesses this means in the deep of the night, “Perhaps I was a coward. Seeing you so pale and death-like scared me.”

“But what after I started recovering?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin glances aside, his eyes once more fixating on the golden hoard. “I could not leave.”

Bilbo straightens, mind going into a thin line. He’ll not tolerate this foolishness. Not from Thorin, not at this point. “Thorin,” he calls out firmly, “Who are you guarding the gold from? Your own company? You do owe each a share, you remember?”

Thorin winces. “It’s the gold of the kingdom of Erebor! I am the King!”

Bilbo kicks the blanket aside and gets up. “And a grand kingdom it will be if it is to be founded on an oath-breaking King!”

Thorin flinches as if hit. “You don’t understand,” he pleads with Bilbo while the hobbit marches up to him.

The words go straight to Bilbo’s heart, but he thinks of Fili and Kili and their fallen expressions. Whatever madness is at work here, he will exorcise it. With his power he reaches out and plucks the crown from Thorin’s head, ignoring the odd sound Thorin makes.

Instead Bilbo reaches up and grasps Thorin’s braid and pulls him down.

“I think I understand well enough,” he whispers, “A dragon has brooded over this gold for neigh a century. It’s become evil.”

“But-” Thorin makes to protest, but Bilbo silences him with a kiss.

For a moment Thorin is completely stiff and Bilbo begins to worry his gesture will not break through. Then, with a small sigh, Thorin’s stance softens. His lips open ever so slightly and his own arms close around Bilbo.

“You don’t understand,” Thorin whispers when they break, but his arms around Bilbo tighten and he sounds as if he’s begging.

Bilbo caresses the bearded cheek. “I do,” he returns, “I do and I see this is hurting you and I don’t want to see that.”

“I-” Thorin begins, but Bilbo presses his finger to Thorin’s lips.

“Let me make you forget,” he promises, “Among all your gold, I will make you forget about it.”

And perhaps it’s working already because Thorin nods and then descends for another hungry kiss.

  _tbc_


	16. Setting up the battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wakes to find up his plan has failed. A little later, Thranduil and his army arrive to back the Master of Laketown and the situation goes from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings yet, but this chapter sets up BoftA. And Thorin still is goldsick.

When morning breaks Bilbo finds his plan has failed.

Thorin presses a kiss into Bilbo’s hair before he leaves their little nest. “Sleep a little longer,” he tells Bilbo while he straightens his clothes. Then he bows down and pulls the blanket up over Bilbo’s shoulders. “Rest and do not worry. You are safe here,” Thorin whispers and the odd glow to his eyes has returned. Bilbo closes his eyes - not to sleep, but to hold back the tears burning within them.

What, he wonders, what will it take to lift the curse lying on Thorin?

He stays huddled under the blankets a little longer. Noise returns to the treasury as the other dwarves come and begin their work. Bilbo can hear Thorin giving strict orders - all ties of familiarity have evaporated and hierarchie alone remains. No cheerful humming fills the air, no idle conversations echo and Bilbo finds the mountain as oppressive as it was when Smaug dwelt within.

With a sigh he unwraps himself and makes his way to his friends. The gold under his feet is slippery and unforgiving and Bilbo is tempted to simply clear a path with his power.

“Bilbo!” Nori greets the moment Bilbo comes into view. He takes a long look at the hobbit and then grimaces. “You look terrible. Did Óin really let you go?”

Bilbo huffs. “I took on a dragon, in case you forgot.” He swipes at his hair - it’s still mussed, and he has a fair idea that last night’s activities did not aid his recovery.

“Yes, and now -” Nori begins, a fierce light to his eyes, but whatever he says is interrupted by Thorin. The King stands on a dais that the dwarves must have cleared yesterday. A throne cut from gold stands atop it, the Arkenstone fixed above. It’s ostentatious and grand and utterly hideous to Bilbo.

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls with a bright smile that would be endearing if not for the strange fever in his eyes, “Join me!”

With a wry grin to Nori Bilbo takes his leave. Thorin eagerly reaches out and helps him up on the dais, telling him that soon the dwarves will have a second throne installed. “You are still so pale,” Thorin says and strokes Bilbo’s cheek, “Sit on my throne for now - I can stand. I need to oversee this. You sit.”

Bilbo does not want to. “I was wondering,” he begins tentatively, “If we could go outside? Perhaps the fresh air will help.”

Thorin sighs. “The men have not yet moved from Dale. I cannot leave the gold. Going outside is too dangerous.”

“They are still there?” Bilbo asks, unease rising in his chest. The master’s greedy demands have not come as a surprise. His persistence, Bilbo did not expect.

“Fear not,” Thorin replies and carefully wraps an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, “Erebor is watched. No enemy will come into my kingdom unnoticed.”

He steers Bilbo toward the throne. Under the Arkenstone’s pale light, Thorin appears pale and haggard. Fresh air, Bilbo thinks, would do them all a world of good. But Thorin is caught in the thrall of his gold and none of the dwarves dare protest against their King.

Reluctantly Bilbo lets himself be pressed onto the cold seat of the throne. Thorin smiles down on him and reaches out to ruffle his hair. “This place becomes you,” Thorin whispers so only Bilbo can hear, “I will have another forged for you. And a crown to mark your place at my side.”

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine - what would he not have given to hear these words but a few nights ago. Would have loved to dream up a future. But now all he sees in Thorin’s eyes is the same affection and possessiveness with which the King eyes the Arkenstone.

So Bilbo swallows down his discomfort, nods and smiles and catches Gloin casting a contemplative look into his direction. Sympathy shines in Bombur’s eyes and Bofur looks angry in the split second Bilbo can see him. He wants to reassure them – and yet his words would mean nothing as long as he cannot get through to Thorin.

Perhaps he really should attempt to hit Thorin with a golden pot, he thinks. A large one rests just below the dais, and with his powers it will not be difficult to lift. But he does not know if that would suffice to break Thorin out of the goldsickness.

Goldsickness. Such a cumbersome term, Bilbo had thought initially, a lifetime ago in Rivendell. Didn’t they merely mean greed? Now that he sees Thorin caught in the gold’s thrall, he understands that greed and goldsickness are two utterly different things. In the first case, he would have shouted Thorin until the King understood.

Now – he swallows glumly – he does not want to hurt Thorin further. The sickness is eating away at him; the deep lines and shadows on his face testament to it. It’s clouding Thorin’s mind and twisting his actions and will end in heart-break and regret if they don’t find a way to stop it.

Bilbo sighs, and then perks up when he hears heavy footsteps approaching. By now something of a steady path has shaped through the gold and toward Thorin. Bilbo looks up to see Balin and Dwalin approach, their faces grave.

Bad news then, he thinks and his stomach sinks.

“Elves,” Dwalin grunts out with absolute distaste. “Thranduil’s army has set up camp in Laketown.”

Thorin’s face darkens like an oncoming thunderstorm. Bilbo feels confusion rise. “What? Why – when did they get here? What do they want?”

“Our gold, of course,” Thorin hisses angrily, “Long since they have envied our riches and now they come to take it by force.”

That doesn’t make any sense, Bilbo wants to protest. Elves are not supposed to fight war about gold and riches, and in spite of all the terrible history between the Greenwood and Erebor Bilbo doubts there was a cause for war. Especially now, when there are only fourteen dwarves and one lone hobbit in the mountain.

“They come to support the Master of Laketown,” Balin answers Bilbo’s question with a grim expression, “Who still demands to be paid for damages suffered by Dale. The elves demand the return of all riches not originally Erebor’s. I do not know if the Master appealed to them for support, but they have found a common cause.”

Bilbo’s heart flutters anxiously. He did not fear the Lakenmen - the ragged armor of the Laketown guards gave no cause for concern - but a host of armed and well-prepared elves is an entirely different opponent. A cold shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“Tell them we will not bow to their demands,” Thorin states, drawing his dark fur cloak up around his shoulders, “We have not won back this mountain to hand it to our enemies so easily.”

Balin inclines his head. “Their envoy will return on the morrow. I fear they may not take the word of anyone but you.”

Thorin sighs in exasperation. “Very well. I will speak to them.” Something dark colors his voice and Bilbo realizes that Thorin does intend for a proclamation, not a conversation. Dread begins to spread through his stomach. The gold has truly obscured Thorin’s senses if he wants to risk a battle. Please no, Bilbo thinks. They cannot fight against elves. Bilbo doesn’t want to. And they cannot hope to win.

When he looks to Balin, the old dwarf seems resigned. “I will tell the others to make preparations then.”

Thorin nods sharply. “See that everybody is decently armed. Fortify the gate!”

“I will see to it,” Dwalin replies obediently. Whatever he thinks of Thorin’s orders; his face reveals nothing.

“Yes, yes,” Thorin nods, “You do that. I will send the others after you. Balin, go to the armory.”

Balin, too, inclines his head. His expression, however, is glum and Bilbo can feel him wanting to protest. The brothers turn to head back into the direction they came from and the gold clinking under their boots is overshadowed by the panicked beating of Bilbo’s heart.

“Thorin,” he begins, his voice breathless, “Thorin, you –“

The King turns, his expression betraying no hint of uncertainty.

“Thorin, we are fourteen!” Bilbo protests, “If there’s an entire army out there –“It will be slaughter. Dwarves may be skilled fighters and Bilbo has his powers, but they fared badly against a group of orcs on wargs already and they have limits. If the army is truly elvish –

Thorin smiles. “Do not worry, Bilbo,” he promises, “Nothing will reach you here.”

Then he turns on his heel, and Bilbo uses the opportunity to jump up from his seat. His entire mind is a mess and he curses the situation. If they’d managed to break Thorin out earlier – but most of all he curses the elves and the Master of Laketown. Justified claims or not, their timing is abysmal. And the threat of war outrageous.

Bilbo purses his lips, stares after Thorin for a moment. He’s too upset to stay here – he’s not going to sit quietly. Thorin may be acting the Mad King now, but he’s not going to risk his friends.

So he turns and hurries after Dwalin. He takes a sharp left and can’t quite stop himself from feeling satisfied as he leaves the treasury behind. Up one flight of stairs and then another. The air grows colder, the light loses its golden hue and after one more corner he sees Dwalin silhouetted against daylight.

“I’ll come with you,” he calls out, eyes fixed on the grey sky above, the most beautiful sight he’s seen in days.

Dwalin raises an eyebrow. “If that’s alright,” he mutters, waiting for Bilbo to catch up with him.

Bilbo nods with determination. He’ll allow Thorin to coddle him, but not if they have bigger problems. In the end, he may be a hobbit and perhaps even weaker or frailer than dwarves – but he’s not going to sit by idly while a battle draws up on the horizon.

“Why would the elves back the Master?” Bilbo asks, hurrying to keep up with Dwalin. A cold gust of wind greets them, and the fresh air is a blessing. Bilbo takes deep breath.

Dwalin snorts. “The elves have long desired the riches of this mountain.”

“The Arkenstone?” Bilbo hazards a guess.

“No,” Dwalin responds, leading them steadily forward to the remains of Erebor’s great gates, “They wouldn’t turn it down. No, it’s some glittery necklace their King wants and has been wanting for some centuries.”

Which means the grudge at work predates the dragon, Bilbo thinks glumly. Dwalin doesn’t seem inclined to speak on the matter and Bilbo pushes it aside for now.

He cannot help but cast a longing glance outside when they reach the doorstep. The day is grey and stormy, Dale almost swallowed by shadows. Elves and men wait there now, Bilbo thinks glumly, wait and prepare for battle.

Dwalin grumbles something and Bilbo turns to him. “We need to fortify this, I suppose?” He looks around at the strewn rocks and remains of Erebor’s gates. Whether Smaug wrought this destruction when he first invaded or when he burst out to hunt down Bilbo, the hobbit cannot tell. To him the strewn parts of masonry form puzzle without a clear solution, though Dwalin nods.

“Need to make sure nobody can get past the gates. We’re not many, but a good gate doesn’t need many to defend it,” Dwalin explains.

Bilbo nods, still not knowing where to begin and hating all the talk of battle. Perhaps, he thinks desperately, they will find a diplomatic solution on the morrow.

“And we only need to defend it until Dain arrives.” Dwalin adds and Bilbo turns on his heel.

“Dain?” he echoes.

“Aye. Our cousin. Lord of the Iron Hills,” Dwalin explains, “Thorin wrote him the moment you took down the dragon. ‘twas to be expected somebody would try and take the mountain.”

Bilbo blinks, speechless. Thorin started – so early? Or was it a reasonable fear that spurred him to seek support? Dwarven tradition? His head spins.

A grunt draws him back to the present. Dwalin has begun to clear out the remaining fundament of the great gate. Fortification, Bilbo thinks, right. They need some defense. Even if Thorin acts mad and beyond reason, there’s no telling what will happen if they allow the elves and the Master to enter. Much as Bilbo does not want to ascribe any ill acts to elves – especially after both Galadriel and Elrond welcomed him so nicely – he knows history. And he most of all he doesn’t trust that Master of Laketown. Who knows what he told the elves.

Maybe they can still defuse the situation, Bilbo tells himself frantically. There is still a chance they can settle this peacefully. But they need a defense first – they cannot allow the entrance to Erebor lie gaping open.

“Dwalin,” Bilbo calls out, “Leave this to me.”

He reaches out with his power and gently dusts away the remaining debris. What is left of the great gates barely reaches even Bilbo’s hip – the dwarves would have to work all night to even shape a passable defense from this.

“Should you -?” Dwalin interrupts.

Bilbo smiles grimly. “It’s not a problem,” he replies and reaches for the first larger chunk of rock to guide it into place. His fingertips tingle from the familiar power running through them and he feels as if he could build the entire wall up with little more than one wave of the hand. His mind already knows where which piece has to go.

Dwalin shakes his head. “You know, Thorin will have my head,” he informs Bilbo wryly, “But this is easier.”

“He won’t have your head,” Bilbo tells him and resolves to step in the next time. He should have stopped Thorin when he had a go at Fili and Kili.

Another cold gust of wind breezes past and Bilbo takes a deep breath. The winter air burns in his lungs, but after so long in the mountain it feels like waking up. He moves four large pieces of stone at once and it feels easier than ever before.

No, Thorin will not take any heads. Nor will misguided elves or greedy men – not as long as Bilbo is with them. Thorin may be under a curse, and perhaps the demands for compensation ought to be considered carefully. But should there be a battle; Bilbo knows which side he will stand on.

The stones settle into place, forming a wall taller than Bilbo. “Very impressive,” Dwalin comments, “Thought that over there – that’s not going to be stable.”

Bilbo stops. His power, he acknowledges, may come easier to him. But that still does not make him an architect. “Alright,” he tells Dwalin, “Then help me!”

Together they managed to erect a stable fearsomely tall wall in a matter of hours. The sun has almost vanished completely and when they scale the top, they can see that fires have been lit in Dale.

Bilbo frowns. Tomorrow they will find a solution. Either with words. Or with weapons.

***

On the following morning the company gathers before the restored wall at the gate, their expressions solemn. The dwarves have chosen armor and Thorin strides past them in silence. His great cloak swishes around his ankles and the crown glints on his head. There is a fierce downturn to his lips, shadows underneath his eyes and Bilbo fears what the day may bring. But he follows him.

Bilbo’s eyes tear as he steps outside. A fierce wind pulls at his clothes; the day is overcast and the ground frozen. He can hear the clanging of weapons from down below before he has stepped up to the edge.

What he sees takes his breath away. Row upon row of elves in shining armor stand before Erebor’s gate, stiff and unmoving, and Bilbo realizes he’s glad he helped Dwalin with the gate last night. Would they have invaded the mountain? What elves are these that so carelessly make demands upon others, that seem to possess no shred of sympathy, of tact? Thorin may be goldsick, but looking upon the army gathered before Erebor, he wonders if Thorin’s deep-rooted distrust of the woodland elves is not well-founded after all.

The men are but a faint idea somewhere beyond the elven ranks. They look ill-organized and cobbled together - and still number at least three-score if not more. Bilbo’s eyes trail over them and cold dread wells in his chest.

“Not promising, is it?” Bofur mumbles nearby and Fili agrees with a grim nod. Kili silently notches an arrow, but keeps his bow out of sight. Thorin takes his position at the center of their group, dark hair billowing in the sharp wind.

Below three figures separate from the main host, and even before they come closer Bilbo can see how their clothes differ. Two men and an elf. The former on horses and the latter on a formidable elk, a crown of autumn foliage and berries crowning white-blond hair. This must be Thranduil, Bilbo thinks, King of the Woodland Realm. And another figure from legend.

Even after Smaug it sends a shiver down his spine. There is a sense of sleek, coiled power about the elven King, something his two human companions lack. Indeed, one - the Master of Laketown Bilbo presumes from his round stature and repulsive clothing - huffs and totters and soon urges his horse to stop. The wind doesn’t carry his words, but it’s one lone man that crosses the last distance between the elven army and Erebor’s gate, bringing him into arrow range.

“Hail Thorin, King under the Mountain!” the familiar voice of Bard greets, stuck in the unlucky role of the messenger. “We have come to ask your decision.”

Bilbo’s heart goes out to the man in sympathy, because for all he doesn’t understand the demands brought forward by men and elves, he thinks Bard is a good man who is likely doing this for the sake of his family. If only there was a way to settle this - but both sides are set in their position and Bilbo watches unhappily as fury erupts in Thorin’s eyes.

“What decision would you have me make?” Thorin thunders. He looks majestic, the crown golden even in the dim light – a creature of legend, “What you have offered me is no choice, nay, it is extortion.”

His words echo painfully over the plain and Bilbo sees Bard shift uneasily. The combined armies behind him, however, do not stir.

“After I have won back my birthright you attempt to sell it to me? What misbegotten logic has blinded your senses – this mountain is a dwarven kingdom and I will not bow to the baseless demands of spineless cowards,” Thorin spits.

“We merely seek reparations for …” Bard starts meekly, but Thorin draws himself up even taller.

“And I would have gladly invited you to share in Erebor’s wealth – each member of my company has received a share, all I have ever asked for was their loyalty. And yet, here you stand – your masters do not dare approach themselves. They did not fight for the mountain either, while the dragon lived. Only now they come, their greedy hands outstretched for our own!”

The elven King nudges his giant elk forward. White blond hair billows in the wind, and he’s a graceful, ageless figure, much like Elrond, yet at the same time so much more dangerous. Something in those clear eyes makes Bilbo shiver.

“You need not seek recourse in offensive remarks, Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil states calmly as he draws up next to Bard, “You know what we seek. Give it to us and we will leave you and yours alone.”

Thorin snorts. “Give it to you and you would leave me? Why then come with an armed host? If this was about the white gems alone, why come prepared for war?”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. Keep talking, he prays, please keep talking.

Thranduil presses his lips together and does not heed Bilbo’s wish. “Is it war you want?”

Dread coils in Bilbo’s stomach. He has feared this, had hoped for a solution – but in the face of this, he cannot see it. Thorin’s lips twitch in a parody of a smile.

“I do not want war,” he declares magnanimously, “But if you bring war to me, I will respond in kind.”

Thranduil gives an imperceptible nod and his archers notch their arrows within the blink of an eye. Ori flinches backward, Bifur ducks, and Thranduil calmly glares up at them. “How many arrows will it take to kill all fourteen of you?”

And Bilbo has had enough.

He steps forward, flings out his power. The ring in his pocket grows hot, as he waves his arm, reaching for every single arrow below. The spot under his heart throbs, but with a harsh gesture Bilbo jerks the arrows from the bows, lifting them into the air and out of the archers’ reach. A shrill scream sounds from the men, gasps from the immortal elves and the Master jerks backward. Bard’s jaw drops and Thranduil’s eyes widen ever so slightly as Bilbo makes the arrows turn in midair.

Now their pointed heads aim at the elven host.

Bilbo looks at the warriors below, unsmiling and solemn. Next to him, Thorin stands still as a stature and down below Bard stares up in bewilderment, the Master has paled in fright and Thranduil’s penetrating blue gaze has fixed itself on Bilbo, assessing him, gauging him.

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine and for a short moment he recalls his father’s cautioning “do not reveal your power”. But that is too late, now, that he has given a demonstration to an entire army of immortal beings. Thranduil’s chilly gaze will not forget this either and Bilbo concludes that he is ruined for the Shire.

After the adventure, that is no surprise. He has found he likes the throb of power running through his body, the tingle in his fingertips. Immortal being of legend Thranduil may be, but Bilbo has brought down Smaug himself.

“All the arrows you possess and then some,” Bilbo declares grandly, madly, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair, “For none will reach! Your arrows are worthless! Your weapons will fail!”

The Master shivers, Bard pales and Thranduil glares at Bilbo. Next to the hobbit Thorin finally smiles slightly. “You would do well to remember who killed Smaug,” he reminds the three leaders below.  

A hush falls over the crowd still eyeing the hovering arrows anxiously. Bard gapes at Bilbo. “You?!” he shouts, “You killed the beast?”

A sense of old Baggins’ propriety disorients Bilbo and before he knows it Kili yells: “He did! Fought Smaug and won! So you’d better be careful!”

Thranduil’s expression darkens ever so slightly. Bilbo feels tempted to shift his weight, but tells himself to stand firm and hold that penetrating gaze.

“Then what does the dragon-slayer wish for?” Thranduil asks calmly.

Bilbo licks his lips. “The dwarves of Erebor have barely reclaimed their homeland and you arrive here, armed, making strange demands. I do not know what the Master of Laketown has told you -” and the man shivers under Bilbo’s eyes - “But know he has not provided us any service he may claim. And he hesitates not to waste your lives on a lie.”

“The heirlooms of Dale are within the mountain!” the Master interrupts shrilly.

Bilbo shrugs. “I know too little of the history to judge historical claims. But those, I believe, should be subject to fair discussion, not dealt with over threats. All I wish is to avoid war and settle  this - “

A rumble runs through the earth. The ground shudders and a loud, thunder-like growl echoes over the mountain. Ori’s eyes widen, Balin pales and Bofur looks around. “What was that? That felt like –“

“Earthworms!” somebody screams and the most horrifying creature Bilbo has seen bursts from the southern hills lining the lake.


	17. The Battle for Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time for the battle has arrived. Elves, men and dwarves have gathered already and now the orcs arrive, led by Azog. And yet something else travels with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of violence, inury, death (unnamed characters only)  
> One last cliffhanger.
> 
> Aaaalso, the wonderful[m-sock](www.m-sock.tumblr.com) posted [artwork ](http://m-sock.tumblr.com/post/119941769007/hobbit-big-bang-entry-shufutu-zailu-by) for this story!

Earth and rocks burst into the air and thunder onto the ground leagues away. Bilbo can feel the mountain tremble underneath his feet, behind him Bifur curses loudly and Balin groans in exasperation. Thorin looks pale, his eyes wide and like Thranduil he stares toward the now gaping holes in the mountainside to their far left.

“What is that?” Fili gasps, frightened.

Down below men scream, their ranks falling into disorder. The elven army stands fast, but a tremor runs through  their rows, confusion spreading. The Master of Laketown cries something, but it is lost in the cacophony. His horse whinnies and dances backwards, while Thranduil and Bard fight to control their steeds.

Where ranks upon ranks of orcs emerge. Their armors dull under the grey sky, their weapons rusty, but deadly and already their numbers are so great desperation rises in Bilbo’s chest. And more keep coming –

This must have been carefully planned, Bilbo realizes as ice builds up in his veins. While they were busy quarrelling with their neighbors, the orcs must have prepared their attack. Did they know, gleefully watch and wait until their time had come?

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip and forces himself to return to the present. With a small move of his hand he returns the arrows to their respective owners. For a moment the elves seem nearly perplexed – then somebody gives a subtle order and as one they turn to the south.

To face the sheer endless and ever growing number of armed orcs. Already there are so many the hillside appears black, and Bilbo’s heart skips a beat in growing fear.

“We need to help them!” Kili exclaims the same moment as Fili offers, “We should open the gate!”

The dwarves look to him in surprise and Fili leans forward. “Offer them refuge! Look out there! There are so many - we only stand a chance if we can set up a good defense!”

Thorin’s eyes are flickering between feverish and clear when he turns to them. “We… no. No, not the mountain, we cannot…” He trails off and reaches for his forehead, face scrunched up as if having a headache. Bilbo feels terrified and helpless, but he does not know what to do for Thorin. Instead he looks to Dwalin.

“Don’t open it,” Dwalin grunts out, expression grim, “There’s other ways to get people in if we have to defend it.”

Balin nods. “I’m afraid so,” he agrees, “Though what would help most – do you think you could close those tunnels?”

Bilbo glances over. They’re distant and huge, but his power tingles on the tips of his fingers. He takes a deep breath, steels himself for any backlash – and carefully reaches out. Over there the earth is soft. It crumbles underneath a simple touch.

The screams and curses in orcish echo as Bilbo one by one tears down the tunnels. He doesn’t even notice the sweat building up on his face, or the tension in his body. Only when the last tunnel has been blocked he dares to sigh in relief.

And yet there still must be thousands of orcs, though they are in chaos, their troops cut in half, leaders missing. They don’t seem to be about to attack and the elves have formed defensive ranks, the men hovering behind them. Below the Master of Laketown is making choked noises, though calmly has notched an arrow.

“They’ll come,” Balin says next to Bilbo, “We may have cut them off, but that’s merely delayed them.”

Already the orcs are reforming. They must have leaders among them - schemers, orcs that know more of warfare than Bilbo and he fears the cruelty they will unleash. Orcs fight because they are orcs, and Erebor is of strategic importance - but why now? Who could have rallied an army like this and lead it here?

“Then we should attack now!” Dwalin concludes and Bilbo’s heart sinks further.

“Yes!” Kili exclaims, and Bilbo catches Thranduil looking toward them. Bard, too, turns his head up. Fear and determination war in his eyes.

“We press our advantage!” Bard shouts, disregarding that the Master ought to be giving the commands, but that man is a pitiful bundle of misery barely staying on his horse, “Will you join us?”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat and Thorin’s face is still twisted, but Fili steps forward and loudly shouts: “We will! For what grudges may lay between us, none are strong enough to divide us in the face of true evil! Against the forces of darkness we will fight together!”

His brother and the dwarves cheer loudly, though Thorin remains hunched over. Down below, the men take up the cheer and the elves look politely confused, until a shout in Sindarin orders them into formation. Thranduil turns his elk and draws his sword and Bilbo abruptly realizes the dwarves need a way down from their wall.

With a wave of his hand he pluck forward some stones, shifting them into a staircase, before turning back to Thorin, because something is seriously wrong with him. Bilbo suspects he’s fighting off the goldsickness, but he’s pale and shaky and this is the utterly wrong moment. With his heart in his throat Bilbo ignores the dwarves as the run down the shoddy stairs with a roar, and approaches Thorin.

He prays his friends will return to him hale and alive. His powers will be more use from the distance, anyway, and he prays the orcs will not have had time to regroup. A small tickle of something wet tickles Bilbo’s upper lip. With a frown he wipes it away – and finds blood on his fingers.

Just in this moment Thorin looks up and his eyes are bright and clear and widen with fear.

“Bilbo!” Thorin cries and steps closer, ignoring the sounds of the approaching battle, his eyes fixed on the blood on Bilbo’s fingers. “You need to go inside!”

Thorin takes Bilbo by the shoulder and spins him away from the battlefield. The first cries of war are carried by the wind, a shrill scream of terror rises - and abruptly cuts off. “You go back to your rooms. Lock the door until we come back – you should be safe there.”

Bilbo wants to protest – he can fight, they will need him. He’ll not hide, not when his friends could die, when he could lose everything, but Thorin pushes him forward and back inside the mountain –

The air behind them whispers and Bilbo’s blood turns to ice. With baited breath they turn to see the immaterial shape of a wraith hover atop the battlement, its rusty blade shining dully.  The wraith heads straight for Thorin and him. And his power is useless.

With a ring Thorin draws his sword. “Leave this to me!” he orders, “Bilbo, go!”

Thorin must be dreaming if he expects Bilbo to abandon him. With shaking hands Bilbo fumbles for his own blade. Skilled or not, it’s a Gondolin blade, too – it might just be enough. Thorin flings himself forward with a roar, and the blades clash.

Bilbo’s heart thunders in his chest and his mind races – why did the wraith come for them? What does it want, why is it here?

But there’s barely time to contemplate, because the wraith brushes Thorin aside and comes straight for Bilbo. He barely manages to raise his sword in time; they collide with an ugly, ringing clang and Bilbo stumbles backward. Ice runs through his veins, and he manages to parry a second stroke from above and Thorin throws himself between Bilbo and the wraith again.

Bilbo gladly ducks to the side, chest heaving. He’s cold and sweating and his heart thunders in his chest and the air around that wraith feels abnormal. Even in face of Thorin’s challenge it barely reacts, deflecting the blows without pressing an offense – and always, always keeping Bilbo in sight.

“Run!” Thorin shouts at him, having realized the same, “Get –“

The wraith changes tactic. It feints to the left, but instead brings its sword up from below and only a swift step back saves Thorin’s life. And the path to Bilbo is left open again.

Bilbo gasps. His hands tremble and he’s not up to this, doesn’t have the physical strength so he tries to reach out with his power but the wraith slips past like mist and it’s closing in and –

Thorin’s sword cuts right through the wraith. The creature screeches in agony, it’s outlines blur – with baited breath Bilbo waits, staring – though Thorin strikes a second blow at the creature’s unreal torso. It flickers, fading in and out of existence before finally flickering out and this is mad, mad, mad and Bilbo makes a choked noise when Thorin looks at him.

“Bilbo,” Thorin begins, voice clear over the din of battle below, a battle that feels surreal when they’re all alone up here. He barely manages to throw a look down from the battlements, but it’s a blur of dulled colors and wild movement and he can’t tell who’s friend or foe and if they are winning or losing.

His head is spinning, when Thorin grasps him by the shoulders and drags him backward, away from the battle and toward the solemn interior of the mountain. “You need to hide,” he tells Bilbo firmly and angrily brushes a loose strand of hair from his face, “Go to the King’s chambers, there’s hidden room next to the –“

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts, “Thorin. I, I’m not going to run, I-” He’s not doing a good job convincing Thorin; he knows he’s trembling and Thorin can feel it. But Thorin needs to understand Bilbo will not hide while his friends are fighting – he doesn’t even know where they are now, if they need help.

“We need to help the others!” he bursts out and makes to break from Thorin’s hold. The King’s hand clenches, stopping him told.

“No, Bilbo, no,” he shakes his head firmly, “Even with your powers, you have no armor and that wraith was headed for you. I don’t know why, but I don’t want you where it could find you –“

“Then I will come with you!” Bilbo protests, “Those wraiths will find me no matter where I hide.” It’s a suspicion, of course, a terrible, frightening suspicion, and it ties too well with his suspicion of why the creatures are after him.

Thorin gives him a hard look – Bilbo’s heart shudders, because apparently Thorin has come to the same conclusion. Perhaps his talent is evil, after all, -

His raging thoughts are interrupted by a shout.

“Fili!” Kili is screaming from down below and even over the roar of battle they both immediately recognize the familiar voice – and the desperation coloring it. It takes almost too long to pick out the familiar figure among the sea of moving and twisting bodies, the dust and grime covering them all, even the elves in their shining armors, and when Bilbo’s eyes find them his heart stops.

Fili has been backed against the mountain, just to their right and is desperately struggling to keep four orcs at bay. Kili struggles to make his way, but there are too many orcs between him and his brother and Bilbo hears Dwalin roar with fury, but he’s  surrounded by four himself and Bilbo’s heart stops when he realizes just how terribly outnumbered they are. How little collapsing the tunnels did in the end –

With a jerky motion Fili tries to feint, but only three orcs fall for, the fourth blocks the way to the left and Fili is forced backward, barely managing to duck a wide swing. It leaves an ugly, red trail across his cheek and Thorin curses, runs to the stairs, but Bilbo is already reaching out, digging his power into the mountain side.

And when the rock finally relents Bilbo wastes no time in smashing several huge chunks right onto the orcs, while making sure Fili remains out of harm’s way. The young dwarf is breathing hard, but glances upward with a nod of thanks – before making to scale the rocks and return into the nightmare.

An orc noticed Thorin – now half-way down the shoddy stairs – and turns its attention onto him with a roar. The King is forced forward, using his advantage to chop the orc’s head off in one smooth strike. But the other orcs have seen him and are advancing and Bilbo’s mind is screaming in panic.

He doesn’t know where the others are, Fili and Kili have vanished back into the mass of fighting bodies, even of Dwalin there is no trace and everybody suddenly looks the same, their faces grotesquely twisted by rage and fear and desperation and there seem to be orcs, orcs everywhere.

Bilbo rushes after Thorin, heart in his throat and ignoring the crumbling rock under his feet. Thorin straightens, gripping his sword tighter, makes to attack – but Bilbo flings out an arm and blindly throws back the wall of approaching orcs.

With a deafening clatter they slam into the rocks, and Bilbo sighs when they seem to stay down and for a moment the space before Erebor’s gate is clear. It’s all a terrible mess and he doesn’t know what to do, because reaching out blindly may so easily kill their allies, but he does not know how to tell friend from foe under dust and blood. There are bodies on the ground nearby, but he dares not to look, dares not think of what could happen, what this madness may result in. He should get out, at least up again where he can try to help –

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts and there is black blood clinging to his blade now, but his eyes are beautifully clear, and there is resolve within them now, “Bilbo, can you get me up there?”

He points at the ruins of a hall-collapsed watchtower on one of the neighboring hills. Thick wads of fog or smoke wallow past it, but Bilbo can see the tall signal post erected atop it.

“… that’s their …” he murmurs, realizing that he is seeing a symbol of the dark One that he is looking at the terrible monster from children’s tales. A monster that exists.

“Command,” Thorin completes, “We take them out; we may win this.”

Bilbo swallows dryly and gives a small nod, when something moves up there. The signal post remains unmoved, but a huge, hulking shape emerges from the clouds. Its pale, scarred skin is intimately familiar and for a moment Bilbo can feel the ghost of hot, fetid breath on his skin. Even healed, he can still sense the scar and his stomach twists.  

“Azog,” Bilbo mutters with wide eyes. Is Azog leading these armies? Has he summoned such a force to hunt down thirteen dwarves and a hobbit?

Thorin nods grimly, unsurprised, as if the appearance of his enemy is entirely expected. “I’ll take him out. You only need to get me there.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. He can still smell the hot breath gusting over this shoulder, feel the world spin away in that twisted parody of normality - and a part of him desires to reach out and snap Azog’s neck just like that, but the spot under his heart is sore and drained and Azog just a bit too far.

Thorin looks at him, chest heaving and waiting for Bilbo to react.

There is a nice, flat stone nearby. It’s not large, so they will have to sit close, but Bilbo can lift it without much trouble and makes it rise up. “Get on,” he says to Thorin, ignoring the harsh staccato of his pulse.

Thorin crosses the distance in three long steps and settles on the floating stone. Bilbo follows suit, and before Thorin can protest he makes them rise sharply.

“You’re not going alone,” Bilbo says, while he concentrates on making the stone move swiftly. It’s a vow. Underneath them a sea of bodies fights for survival, despair rendering elves and orcs unrecognizable. Already the dust is settling as blood soaks the ground and stains it red and black.

Up in the air the noises are unrecognizable; only indistinguishable shouts, the brutal clang of weapons and the nauseating wet thud when steel meets flesh. But the thick stench of sweat and fear and death makes bile rise in Bilbo’s throat and he lifts the stone higher.

Of course, Azog sees them. He shouts something and suddenly the air is filled with arrows and stones and Bilbo barely manages to brush them away. Under him the stone shudders, Thorin curses, but there’s already the next set of arrows coming so Bilbo lifts them out of their path as far as possible.

An icy gust of wind hits them. Even though the arrows pass underneath, he can see a group of twenty archers just behind Azog taking aim again, and he needs to get them down – So Bilbo does the only thing he can. With a violent gesture he reaches out, enfolds the ruined tower in his grip and collapses its fundament.

The collapse buries at least ten archers, even Azog has to duck the crumbling building, roaring in rage and Bilbo uses the chance to get him and Thorin to the ground. Thorin doesn’t even wait for the stone to set down, he jumps off and heads straight for Azog and Bilbo is so distracted he barely manages to not crash the stone into the ground. He half-tumbles from his perch, knees unsteady and panting. It’s beginning to take its toll and he doesn’t feel well, so he reaches for the ring and the metal is cool in his pocket.

Azog backs up with a growl, Thorin has him almost against the tower’s remains, but then the pale Orc pushes forward once more, forcing Thorin to retreat. Next to the orc Thorin is small, tiny almost and Bilbo’s heart clenches. He’s going to end this fight, he tells himself, end this here and now –

Then Thorin casts him a look and shout “Get away, Bilbo!” and Azog begins to laugh. Bilbo flinches and Thorin reacts too late – the mace catches him in the shoulder and propels him backward. Thorin hits the ground with a thud, Bilbo is running before he realizes it, and anxiety freezing time. Then Thorin moves, grasps Orcrist and makes to get up the moment Bilbo reaches his side, fumbling for his sword.

Thorin growls something, Azog approaches with a smirk. Bilbo points his small sword at him, sweat sticking to his back and he’s already reaching out with his power to throw Azog from the mountain once and for all when the pale orc stops.

“Get out of the way, Halfling,” Azog threatens with a smirk, “You will die.”

Bilbo’s blood drains from his face. He knows he could just push Azog away – but he’s frozen, caught by his own terror and Azog knows. The orcs crows in triumph, leers and steps forward. A warm hand lands on Bilbo’s shoulder and he’s gently tugged back. Thorin brushes past him, blood trickles from a scratch on his forehead, but he radiates confidence and comfort.

“You won’t touch him,” Thorin tells Azog, mad rage replaced with cool determination and somehow that’s more frightening.

Azog’s face splits in an ugly grin. “No. Somebody else will do that.”

Bilbo’s head jerks up. Who would – the air behind him whistles, something cold brushes past him, he whirls around on his heels. The fog part to reveal a familiar, horrifying black shape. Without a sound, a wraith glides forward – and there are more behind him.

Bilbo’s mind freezes. Thorin killed the wraith – why are there five now, where do they come from, why do they haunt him? Is that what Azog meant, what do they want with him? He’s just a small, inconsequential hobbit after all.

“Baggins,” the leading wraith hisses and stretches out a black-clad hand, “Give it to us!”

His name. They know his name – somehow that scares Bilbo most of all. He doesn’t even know what they want, barely manages to push his feet backwards. The hand comes closer and Bilbo can see the armor on it; grey steel stained black.

“Baggins,” they hiss again, approaching.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts and abruptly pushes Bilbo aside, just when the hand suddenly shoots forward. Instead of meeting Bilbo’s flesh, the cold blade of Orcrist bites into it, and the wraith hisses, drawing back. Bilbo hits the ground with a thud, ears ringing. His mind feels scrambled, he realizes he shouldn’t be freezing up like this – it’s likely to get himself and everyone killed. Thorin is blocking the wraiths from him, but he’s alone against five and Azog is laughing and this is terrible and –

“You are not alone,” an ephemeral voice echoes in his head. It’s like a breath of fresh air bursting through the dust and smoke.

The proud cry of an eagle sounds from above and Bilbo hears the soft beat of giant wings. Their wings dispel the fog, allowing Bilbo to see them – large and majestic – and the air shifts. The wraiths hesitate. Azog has stopped laughing.

Thorin lets go of a small sigh. They are still alone, Bilbo thinks frantically – until a familiar figure steps forward, clad in glinting armor. Elrond has his sword drawn, a frown on his face as he eyes the wraiths.

“You should have stayed dead,” is all he says before he deals the first blow and Bilbo can see the wraith frantically backing away. The other wraiths hover with indecision, but when one attempts to attack it meets Elrond’s blade swiftly. In the instant the blade touches the wraith, it flickers and disappears utterly.

Bilbo is about to start hoping again, when another familiar voice addresses him: “Bilbo Baggins. Just what have you done? Didn’t I tell you to wait for me?”

“Gandalf!” Bilbo shouts in surprise, and only stops himself in the very last moment from flinging himself at the wizard. He looks as he always does, clad in grey, but his sword is drawn.

“Gandalf, what are you-” A wraith tries to use Bilbo’s distraction to sneak past Thorin, but the dwarf is quicker. One blow throws the wraith back and Gandalf dispatches it with one strike.

The wizard shakes his head, expression turning grim. “Get away from here!” he instructs, nodding at both Bilbo and Thorin, “We will take care of this!”

He turns around, and Bilbo at this time feels exasperated enough to wonder where exactly he is supposed to go. Especially as the battle seems to follow him.

“Bilbo!” Thorin screams and throws himself at the hobbit. In shock and surprise Bilbo doesn’t even feel the cold blade scrape over his back, tear through close and skin. He hits the ground with a thud, Thorin catching himself and instantly rolling over. Azog is above them, sword lifted overhead and swinging downward. Thorin manages to parry the blow perhaps an arm’s length over Bilbo’s face –

And Bilbo abruptly is very angry. He throws all the power at his beckoning around Azog, freezing him mid-move and lifting him in the air. Slowly he climbs to his own feet, ignoring the hot warmth spreading over his back, Thorin’s tense position and the utterly unnatural battle happening behind him.

That’s not a battle he can fight. Azog, however, he should have dealt with earlier. “You said you weren’t going to kill me,” he tells the orc that’s utterly helpless against his power. Bilbo can feel him struggling, but he tightens the invisible bonds and Azog’s ribs creak. “It seems, after all, you were right.”

He smiles, for the first time since this terrible battle started, and it’s not a nice expression. “Because you will die here!”

Bilbo forces Azog’s body flat on the ground and without relinquishing his grip turns to Thorin. “He’s yours.”

Thorin looks taken aback for a short moment, but then gives a sharp nod. With three steps he has crossed the distance and stands over Azog’s prone body. The orc fights Bilbo’s hold, yet just as Bilbo is powerless against the wraiths, the orc cannot escape his power.

“For the crimes. Against my people and others,” Thorin murmurs, almost like a prayer. Then he brings his sword down and Orcrist neatly slices through the flesh and bone of Azog’s neck. Blood squirts up, Bilbo feels the body in his grip jerk – and then it goes utterly limp.

He releases his grip immediately, shuddering at what he felt, though he firmly tells himself that the world will be a better place without the Defiler in it. Thorin looks at the body of his arch nemesis almost contemplatively and Bilbo uses the occasion to cast a glance to the wizard and elf. Their fight has moved farther; with Gandalf and Elrond visibly gaining ground.

It’s time for this battle to end, Bilbo thinks. The leader is dead, the wraiths are retreating – now only the fighting on the ground has to stop before any more blood is spilled.

He takes a deep breath and walks toward where the mountain begins to drop off. Fog and smoke and even dust have cleared, the fighting dwindled in size – and yet it’s a horrifying scenery. The ground black and red from blood, dotted with broken weapons and armor. Detached limbs and maimed bodies, barely even recognizable as remains of living beings anymore. Bilbo’s stomach twists as the wind blows up a whiff of burning flesh.

Stop this, he tells himself, he needs to stop this, and Thorin standing next to his shoulder seems to sense his thoughts. The King holds Azog’s decapitated head, though his features display no triumph, but worry. Of course, Fili and Kili are out there. As are Dwalin and Balin and Ori and Bofur and everybody else and they can only pray their friends have survived so far.

Once again Bilbo is stuck at how to use his power – he can’t freeze all of them, there are too many, this would be worse than Smaug – though this time he finds his answer. He doesn’t need to freeze them; he just needs to give them a reason to freeze.

So he picks out the last remaining, mostly intact formation of orcs – perhaps fifteen – and with an exaggerated wave of the arm lifts them all into the air. The screech as they rise up and up and up, clinging panicked onto each other, stabbing blindly with their weapons. Bilbo feels a painful pull in the spot underneath his heart, but taxing or not, with luck this will be his last use of his talent for now.

Below the battlefield falls silent. First the elves, then the orcs and men realize that there are fifteen orcs floating in midair, high above their heads and even the eagles circle them in confusion. Just when a single cheer raises from the middle of the battlefield and somebody shouts “Bilbo!” Thorin steps forward and lifts up Azog’s head.

“Listen!” he exclaims and his voice echoes over the field, loud enough to be heard even on the fringes, “Orc scum! Your leader has fallen! Your battle is lost!”

A titter runs through the remaining orcs below, a cheer echoes from the men and dwarves. Almost reluctantly, it seems, some elves take it up, until the entire crowd is shouting: “Victory! Victory! Victory!”. Thorin throws the head from the mountain in disgust and turns away, looking at Bilbo with a faint smile.

Without a further thought Bilbo relinquishes his grip on the orcs, not even watching them fall. It’s over he thinks, it’s over –

And then the world grows dark.


	18. A battle won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle concludes. Explanations ensume. And the story comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the last ending was misleading *evil laughter*. Then this chapter will start with a surprise! But once the battle is finally over, it really is. Even though Dain is late. 
> 
> Well, this chapter and the epilogue.

It’s like a shadow fell over the sun suddenly, and Bilbo glances up in confusion, but there are only a few clouds in the sky that now is a dark grey. Next to him Thorin sucks in a sharp breath, down below somebody screams. An icy shiver runs down his spine, he shudders without quite knowing why.

A tremor runs through the ground underneath his feet. Bilbo can feel the air around him shift, grow dense and thick with ill will and evil. Thorin’s hand brushes over his, a hint of reassurance in this sudden turn of events. Below the cheer has fallen silent; the fighting has stopped.

“This is not possible,” Elrond’s voice carries over, just before a scratchy, lilting and utterly evil voice rings out overhead. It whispers something – perhaps a spell, a curse – in a language Bilbo does not know, yet his hair stands on ends and the low, threatening sounds send him closer to Thorin.

It seems to come from everywhere at once until Bilbo realizes that, no, atop the ruins of collapsed watchtower the darkness seems to concentrate, to waver and stretch out its own power across all others nearby. It coils and in that split second Bilbo realizes it’s about to strike, but before he can react, Gandalf is there, the top his staff aglow.

“You will not,” Gandalf shouts with obvious effort, “set foot here!”

His staff brightens, but the darkness responds in kind and Bilbo knows he doesn’t truly understand what he’s seeing, cannot nearly even fathom the power involved here – and knows that if even one small thing goes wrong he and all the others will die in an instant. He barely dares to breathe or take off his eyes, and the strange voice is whispering again, but Gandalf stands firm, the light of his staff now covering all of them on Ravenhill.

“You cannot fight him,” Elrond hisses to Gandalf, “We need to –“

“Not on his own, no,” a new voice interrupts, female and familiar and Bilbo already heard it once today. “But he is not alone.”

Untouched by the dust, the dirt and the darkness Galadriel walks past them, her white dress shining with its own light. She’s unearthly, unreal and radiates a power greater than Bilbo has ever felt before. Even Gandalf’s light pales in comparison and without even a hint of fear she steps past him and before the coiled darkness.

The darkness hisses, recoils, the voice whispering sibilantly, rising in volume, and yet Bilbo thinks it’s withdrawing. Paling in comparison. Galadriel raises a hand in one smooth gesture. Light explodes.

“Begone, servant of evil! Go whence you came!” is the last Bilbo hears as the world around him dissolves into bright white.

***

He wakes to an incessant prodding. Bilbo twitches involuntarily and a spike of pain travels across his back. With a groan he blinks, about to complain – but then he finds himself looking up into a blue sky and three faces stare down on him. Thorin’s face hovers almost directly above him, and Gandalf crouches on the other side. Kili grins cheerfully at him, a white bandage covering his head. “Great to see you awake,” he says, while Thorin gives Bilbo a relieved smile.

“I – what?” Bilbo mumbles, blinking in confusion. His mind isn’t quite willing to believe what he remembers, so he stares at his companions in askance.

“We won,” Kili tells him cheerfully. Thorin nods, the corners around his eyes crinkling. He’s taken off his coat and Bilbo has a fair idea of what the fur tickling his throat belong to. A trickle of blood has dried on Thorin’s cheek, but the King looks relieved - happier than before.

Bilbo casts a look around. Ravenhill is mostly still, the bodies of a few slain orcs in the distance and armored elves moving between them. He spies Elrond’s shining golden cloak somewhere near the rubble of the collapsed tower and the spot under his heart throbs in response. Galadriel vanished as mysteriously as she appeared - she could be out of sight, but Bilbo is fairly certain he would sense her. His talent may be different from the powers gifted to the elves, but but his senses have sharpened.

“A close thing, if I may remind you,” Gandalf adds with a huff “Had we not had the foresight to make haste once we learned of Azog’s plans –“

“One day,” Thorin interrupts smoothly, “You must tell me why you wanted us to go to Erebor when you suspected the dark Lord himself had cast its eye on it.”

Gandalf coughs, but there is no accusation in Thorin’s voice. Bilbo is glad to see his eyes completely free of that feverish light – it faded during the battle and he hopes it will never return.

“So who was it that attacked us? I thought Azog, but ...” Bilbo asks, hoarsely and is instantly helped to sit up by Thorin. Kili brings out a waterskin, and the hobbit accepts it gratefully.

Gandalf sighs. Now that Bilbo looks a bit closer, he finds grim on the wizard’s face and clothes. “The necromancer. He was, I suppose, unwilling to give up the East and viewed Erebor as the key.”

“But Smaug was not his ally,” Kili protests, “Or was he? If so, why didn’t he move against Smaug already?”

“Smaug was not on the side of good either,” Gandalf replies, and casts a glance toward the mountain. Smoke rises up from below, but the sky again has cleared. White clouds whisk past, though thick, grey clouds are amassing at the horizon.

“The dragon was a potential ally to the necromancer,” Gandalf explains, “And if not that, at least not danger to his ambitions either.”

Bilbo recalls their earlier conversations and unease rises in his chest. “So Azog just rode in on his coattails?”

“Oh no, no,” Gandalf is quick to correct, “Azog was his commander. His task was to stop you from claiming the mountain.”

“So they were hunting us,” Thorin concludes, his voice flat, “But not to end our line.” Behind him Kili pales and Bilbo reaches out to pat his arm.

“I’d rather think of it as an unholy union of interests on Azog’s part,” Gandalf suggests while Thorin glumly stares into the distance. Bilbo wants his smile back, so he exhales loudly. “Well, he’s dead.”

The satisfaction he feels rise in himself is quite unbefitting of a gentle hobbit. Hobbits are not warriors - they refuse to invite their enemies for tea, not slay them. But after what the Pale Orc did to Thorin, after the memory of hot breath on his shoulder and the feeling of something utterly wrong piercing his skin, he has no sympathy left for Azog and will not grieve that monster’s death.

The Shire, he thinks quietly, is far, far away now. The road has changed him, and he wonders if he can even go back. He knows that the answer is no - he is no longer the same hobbit and a part of him does not wish to be that predictable, boring bachelor again - but the notion yet frightens him.

“So did you follow Azog here?” Kili inquires of the wizard, toying idly with the worn sleeve of his coat, “You could have shown up a bit earlier.”

Gandalf grimaces at the accusation. “We came as soon as possible.”

Bilbo recalls his last conversation with Gandalf once again and frowns. “What were you doing?” he asks and shivers in the cold breeze. Thorin inches closer until he practically kneels behind Bilbo.

Gandalf studies Bilbo intently. Probably wondering what Bilbo shared with the others, but in Bilbo’s book they all just fought on the same side - there should be no more secrets. “Once we found the tombs in the mountain empty, Radagast and I headed to Dol Guldur to verify the rumors. At that point the necromancer had already left the fortress and headed to Erebor.”

Thorin shifts at this and Kili’s face twists in confusion. Before any of them can inquire - or Bilbo truly has a chance to puzzle out Gandalf’s meaning, a familiar golden cloak comes into view.

“And a strange move indeed,” Elrond comments as he strides over. Bilbo sees other elves behind him, among them Thranduil. Who follows Elrond reluctantly, mouth pressed in a thin line and further thinning when he catches sight of Thorin. The King under the Mountain stiffens as well.

“The mountain’s strategic value should not be underestimated,” Gandalf replies evenly.

“Perhaps,” Elrond sighs, “But why did he interfere himself when the battle was lost? Why not abandon it after Azog lost?” He shakes his head with a small sigh, before turning to Thorin. “Your presence is required, Ma – King under the Mountain.” Elrond nods toward Thranduil who hovers in the background.

Thorin purses his lips. “If this, as I believe, concerns what occurred before the start of battle, I believe this can be spoken of here.”

Elrond casts a somewhat exasperated look to Thranduil who gives a sharp nod and steps forward. Thorin makes no move to get up or move away from Bilbo, instead he very calmly looks at the elf King.

Both Gandalf and Elrond seem tense, and Bilbo dearly hopes this will not degenerate into a shouting match. Thorin is visibly uneasy and Thranduil looks as if he would rather be somewhere else.

“What is it?” Thorin asks.

Thranduil gives him a cold stare. “Do you still desire war?”

Bilbo flinches, but Thorin is already replying. “No, and I would not have desired it had I been left with any choice.”

“You refused to return to the successors of Dale their rightful belongings,” Thranduil states.

“The Master demanded to be paid for services never rendered,” Thorin corrects and then glances around, “Where is he, anyway?”

“Fled,” Thranduil declares, “Gave his horse the spores the moment the orcs arrived. I do not know whether he lives.”

For a moment Thranduil and Thorin are united by sheer disgust. Kili picks up on it. “Well, good riddance to him”, he says loudly, “Who speaks for the men now?”

“Bard,” Elrond comments, “Apparently he’s rather popular and a descendant of Girion, too.”

“Bard?” Bilbo bursts out. He remembers the man intend on stopping them quite vividly. At least he lives – hopefully his family does, too. “What happened to Laketown?” he asks abruptly.

“The orcs mostly left it alone,” Gandalf answers, “They concentrated solely on the mountain.”

A relief – at least no more innocents died because they got drawn into a fight not their own. Bilbo lets himself relax slightly against Thorin, not caring that he almost lies across Thorin’s lap this way.

“That’s good,” Kili agrees easily. Bilbo is glad to see his cheerful nature did not suffer in battle - though he has a suspicion Kili is being extra cheerful in order to annoy both Thranduil and his uncle.

“If we are in agreement,” Thranduil declares sharply, blond hair fluttering elegantly in the breeze “Then I will withdraw my forces from this desolate place.”

He’s unsettled, Bilbo realizes. While outwardly Thranduil appears as unfazed as prior to the battle, his behavior gives him away. Perhaps he saw something on the field – or rather, what he saw on Ravenhill. A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine at the memory. It still doesn’t feel real.

Thorin inclines his head. “We are,” he says, and Gandalf straightens up, “Thranduil!” he protests, “You cannot withdraw all your forces now! Erebor may need your help, it’s still in a vulnerable position and the enemy may –“

He is interrupted by three persons at once. Elrond frowns, says, “The enemy was banished, you saw it”, while Thorin firmly shakes his head, insisting “We will hire the Lakemen then” and Thranduil declares “If the enemy truly was seated in Dol Guldur I must look after the forest.”

“And the spiders,” Kili mutters into the ensuing silence, “Burn them.”

Bilbo can’t suppress the snort and even Elrond looks amused. Thranduil looks torn between agreeing and being offended, before he sighs. “Yes, we will kill the spiders.”

“Now, if there are no further issues, I would very much like to-” And again, Thranduil is interrupted by Gandalf.

“I feel it might be better if we first could determine what drew the enemy here,” the wizard suggests, eyeing Thranduil and Elrond so intently Bilbo feels uncomfortable,  “And develop an appropriate strategy in turn.”

None of those gathered seems to feel the discussion necessary and Bilbo, too, wonders if this is the right setting. After all, just a few steps away there are elves and men cleaning up orc corpses and the sun is beginning to set. He’s also worried about the rest of the company – he guesses Fili must be alright if Kili is here and joking, but Bilbo hasn’t seen Fili or any of the others since they left the gate.

“The enemy has fled,” Elrond echoes his earlier statement, “He may seek to return to Mordor, but his strength has been greatly depleted. It is curious that he still thought to confront us, though.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. Maybe the temperatures are dropping, but -

“Mordor?” Kili bursts out, his eyes wide, looking from Gandalf to Elrond to Thorin and back, “Are you talking about Sauron? Is that - was he that dark thing?”

“Dark thing indeed, Master Dwarf,” Elrond comments dryly and Bilbo wonders if in all the millenia Elrond has lived he’s ever heard Sauron referred as ‘that dark thing’. “The darkness can take many shapes and Mithrandir has suspected the necromancer’s true shape for a while.”

Gandalf exhales. “That is true, I had my suspicions. But I did not know until he revealed himself here.”

“And yet you bade us march on Erebor,” Thorin comments, quietly, but his voice carries. Bilbo swallows. Has Gandalf truly risked their lives on such a gamble? Did he send them out, knowing the dark One had his eye set on Erebor, too?

It’s not what a true friend would do and Bilbo feels a chasm widening between them and the wizard. Gandalf catches Bilbo’s eyes and his own mien grows sad. “I suspected, but I did not know. Had I known before, I would not have urged you to go,” he says quietly.

“But you suspected,” Bilbo challenges, burying his fingers into the fur lining Thorin’s cloak. The wind around them grows fiercer, still, and it feels as if the noise around them has started to die away.

“The moment I knew I came here at once,” Gandalf replies and inclines his head in a silent apology, “And I must admit I erred - the wraiths I did not expect, and once Azog failed I thought the battle won.”  

“The presence of the wraiths was a surprise indeed,” Elrond adds with a raised eyebrow.

“What were they?” Kili asks, “I only saw them from a distance, but they were like the one we encountered in Mirkwood?” Thranduil grimaces at the name, Bilbo notices from the corner of his eye, but says nothing.

“Nazgûl,” Elrond explains shortly and ice spreads through Bilbo’s veins, “I did not know they had returned.”

“They never died,” Gandalf says and turns to look at Thorin and Bilbo in askance. “You encountered a wraith before? When? How?”

“A while ago my scouts reported something interesting,” Thranduil responds and his lips curl up. Bilbo realizes the elven king is staring at him, and both Elrond and Gandalf follow his gaze. “A small wizard – or perhaps a hobbit with magic traveling to the east. Of course the enemy would be interested in such a power – perhaps interested enough to send out one of his servants?”

Bilbo’s heart sinks. The words echo in his head – showing for the entire world to see what he has feared and suspected all along. That this, perhaps, is his fault. That his power truly is evil.

Thorin squeezes his hand surreptitiously, while Gandalf frowns. “Magic power?” he echoes and looks to Bilbo.

And the hobbit realizes that even after all he never explicitly told Gandalf. Without further comment he reaches out with these invisible tendrils - ignoring how sluggish his body is to respond - and gently lifts Gandalf’s staff from where it leans against a rock.

It hovers in the air for a moment before Bilbo gently sets it down again. “This,” he says quietly, “This is my power.”

Gandalf’s brow remains furrowed. “Well,” Elrond agrees, “I can see why the rumor of a strange sorcerer may have drawn his attention.” And then he turns to Bilbo and gives him a small smile. “Also, Master Hobbit, I would like to say after having seen your power on display I am rather glad to have you on our side.”

Bilbo doesn’t quite know how to respond, but Kili does it for him. “He’s good to have around,” he agrees with a bright grin, “Brings luck.”

“And killed your dragon,” Thranduil adds without inflection, “Luck indeed.”

Bilbo shrugs helplessly, not really trying to suppress his grin, Kili beams at him and Thorin radiates full-hearted approval. Elrond appears impressed, Thranduil shakes his head – only Gandalf stares at Bilbo as if he has grown a second head.

“You… killed the dragon?” he bursts out, “Bilbo Baggins, what in the world did you do?”

***

They only get back to the mountain long after the sun has set and the air grown cold. First Gandalf insisted on hearing the tale and would not be dissuaded. After that Thorin had protested that they should truly move – and once again unwittingly allied himself with Thranduil as the elven King had taken the opportunity to have his troops retreat to Dale for the night.

Bilbo, too, had insisted on having his questions answered. The tombs in the mountains Gandalf inspected belonged to the nine - the Nazgûl - and had only confirmed Gandalf’s suspicion. None of them, Bilbo realizes, had expected Sauron to have returned. They had known he would try, had suspected he would begin in the east - yet his return had taken them all by surprise. Only now Bilbo understands how close to losing they had been.

How terrible the night might have ended.

But they live. Gandalf and Elrond remain puzzled why Sauron was so desperate for Erebor that he risked appearing as the necromancer - exposed himself after the battle had been lost - though that question remains unanswered. The mountain’s strategic position, they tentatively agree. Privately, Bilbo wonders, if something within the mountain might have drawn him.

He’ll let the wizard figure that one out, he thinks and idly pats the magic ring in his pocket.

Then Bard had appeared, bedraggled and worse for the wear, and rather uncertain of how negotiate the mess the master had left behind. Thorin had given him one long look, told him not to worry too much for now, and speak to Balin. After that, Thorin himself had been spirited away to sort out the diplomatic mess left behind.

Bilbo had been ferried over to Óin whose first order had been to strip. Which, in the middle of a freezing battlefield, protected only by the flimsy sheets of a hastily erected tent, hadn’t quite been to Bilbo’s taste, but the cut on his back had started burning. So he’d reluctantly peeled off his layers and Óin had started cursing.

Moments later he had been surrounded by two elves, Óin and Bofur. When the elves and Óin had agreed that Bilbo needed to drink a tea brewed from a strange smelling herb, he’d agreed and declined to ask what else exactly was in the tea. In the meanwhile, he learned from Bofur that the entire company survived. Gloin had broken his arm, Fili his ankle, Nori lost two toes and Dwalin the tip of his left ear, but those were the worst injuries.

And even though Bilbo knows that many have perished, even though the smell of burning flesh still hangs heavy in the air, he leans back with a sigh of relief. His heart lightens as he looks to the starry sky – perhaps now it really is over. Perhaps now they truly have won Erebor.

“Bilbo!” Kili shouts from across, helping his brother hobble along, “We’re going back. You’re coming with us?”

Bilbo nods and shrugs his coat back on. It’s probably ruined beyond repair, stained with blood and dirt and he truly needs a bath, but for now the mountain with its warm chambers and soft beds beckons.

“Sure!” he replies, “Bofur?”

“Aye,” the dwarf agrees, “Bombur ‘n Bifur should already be there.” He climbs to his feet and tugs Bilbo along. They both totter for a moment, vertigo prominent after the exhausting hours behind them.

They’ve not taken three steps when a trumpet shatters the din. Bilbo’s heart stops, he looks south and sees the shape of an army drawing up on the hilltop there. No, he thinks, please no. Which army has come now? He doesn’t want to fight; they’ve won this already, why –

“Dain!” Fili exclaims cheerfully, “He’s here!” And Bilbo recalls Dwalin saying Thorin had written his cousin for support, and really, another army is the last thing they need.

“Thorin’s cousin,” Kili tells Bilbo helpfully, while his brother begins to wave. Bilbo still feels uncomfortable with the sudden appearance of so many warriors, but the host stops there. A sole figure detaches itself and approaches.

Once it’s closer Bilbo recognizes a dwarf. Riding an armored boar.

“Cousin!” Dain shouts loudly and his voice must be audible even in Dale, “Don’t tell me we’re late?”

Thorin makes his way over, and when he stops they are close enough for Bilbo to get a closer look at Dain. His bright red hair is visible even in the little light, and scars decorate his face.

“Your support is welcome nonetheless,” Thorin greets diplomatically. Dain chuckles, gazing over the battlefield with a shake of his head. By now the men and elves have recovered their dead and injured – only orc bodies remain.

“But we missed the battle,” Dain declares, petulant.

“Yes,” Fili chimes in cheerfully, “Though you did arrive in time for the post-battle celebrations I think.”

A wide grin spreads across Dain’s face. Dwalin, rounding up dead orcs for burning nearby, glances over. “Hope you brought ale, cousin.”

***

Dain has arrived generously supplied. The curious result is that during the following two days nobody in Erebor is too certain whether they are recovering from battle or from the victory celebrations.

On the third day somebody has the brilliant idea to toast to the glorious dead and invite the Lakemen over. Bilbo once more wakes in Thorin’s bed the following morning, his head stuffy.

“Is it always going to be like this?” he mutters into his pillow.

Thorin’s hand brushes over his bare back before coming to rest on his shoulder. “Does that mean you are planning to stay?” he asks and though he tries to sound casual Bilbo senses the anticipation.

He rolls onto his side and looks at Thorin. The cut on his face heals nicely, though it may leave a scar, but to him Thorin looks more attractive than ever. And though Bilbo still cannot quite fit whatever is between him and Thorin into the relationships he knows from the Shire, he does not feel compelled to. All he knows that he would hate to be separated from Thorin, and that is enough.

“If I can,” he replies with a smile.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin replies, “Every dwarven kingdom in Arda would be glad to host you!”

“Well,” Bilbo says, “there is only one I would like to live in.”

Thorin shifts forward. “And it will be glad to have you,” he whispers, “As long as your heart desires.” And he presses his lips to Bilbo’s.


	19. A new home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is over, though some questions remain. And Bilbo makes one more trip to the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading - I certainly had fun writing. (the most exhausting part, truthfully, was making daily updates). A huge thank you I owe to the lovely [striving-artist](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/) who did excellent beta work (except for those chapters I simply uploaded too late. Or scenes I decided to add spontaneously. In short: mistakes are all mine!). And the wonderful artworks to go along with the story!  
> [Banner](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hobbitstory/works/3915409) by [penumbria](http://penumbria-fiction-world.tumblr.com/)  
> [Bilbo and his floating dressing gown + a comic of the stay at Beorn's](http://m-sock.tumblr.com/post/119941769007/hobbit-big-bang-entry-shufutu-zailu-by) by [m-sock](http://m-sock.tumblr.com/)  
> [Bilbo facing the wraith](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/119748164337/hobbit-big-bang-2015-shufutu-zailu-by) by [teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)  
> That's seriously amazing work, so take a look and enjoy!

The following morning brings one more diplomatic meeting. Bilbo is not entirely certain why his presence is required - and rather reluctant to leave bed - but Thorin cheerfully informs him he may as well get used to diplomacy if he intends to stay.

“As the dragon-slayer, your word holds quite a weight among dwarves and others,” Thorin tells him while they make their way toward Dale, “Also, I was thinking of naming you advisor.”

“I’m not entirely certain I’m qualified,” Bilbo replies and huddles deeper into his coat. A thin layer of frost dusts the ground and the wind feels even colder today.

“Oh, you are,” Balin says with a wide smile, “Most dwarves will either have seen what you can do or at least have heard about it, and they’d rather be on your good side.”

Bilbo grimaces. “That’s still no qualification for diplomacy.”

Thorin teasingly brushes his shoulder against Bilbo, making the hobbit stumble slightly. “And yet you were the one telling everybody not to go to war. I think you understand the basics.”

It’s not a memory Bilbo likes to recall and he knows Thorin isn’t exactly fond of these moments either. Between the Master’s absurd demands, Thorin’s descent into goldsickness and Thranduil’ willful ignorance of both, nobody cut a good figure.

But Thranduil has since returned to his realm and the Master has vanished into the unknown. Bard pursues a pragmatic course and that means negotiations are getting along quite well. Thorin has offered pay for those involved in battle anyway and no longer refuses to return what the dragon plundered from Dale.

Once again, their meeting is short and Bard soon leaves. Elrond, Gandalf, Dain, Thorin and Bilbo remain in their meeting chamber a moment longer.

“There was something I have been wondering about,” Bilbo states once the meeting has been formally adjourned. His stomach twists when all attention abruptly is focused on him, but he has grown familiar with these people. Kings and legends they may be, though now that he knows their names and habits, they do not loom all that large any longer.

“The wraiths, the nazgûl -” the names sends a shudder down his spine, “Are they gone? Could they return?”

Tension hums through his body. He tries not to betray it, but the question carries much weight. Should they return - should they truly be after him as the others seem to suspect - he will bring danger to every place where he will stay. When all he wants is to see his friends safe and happy.

Elrond and Gandalf exchange a look. “Being wraiths, they do not die,” Elrond explains slowly, “And they are bound to the ring, as long as it is not destroyed, they will linger.”

Bilbo swallows and glances to Thorin. Perhaps he should not stay, then.

“But,” Elrond continues, “Their movement depends on their master’s will. He was greatly weakened in battle so he will not so soon turn his mind back upon the mountain.”

“Was that what he was after?” Dain asks, eyeing the assembled persons sharply. “The mountain?”

“The mountain’s strategic -” Gandalf begins, but Bilbo interrupts his spiel quietly. “The wraiths came after me, I think. They knew my name.”

It comes out fiercer than he wishes to and Gandalf inclines his head in a silent apology. Bilbo feels Thorin silently step behind him, offering support.

“That is quite possible, Master Hobbit,” Elrond eventually replies, studying Bilbo thoughtfully, “Though we do not know what he knew of your power or what he hoped to achieve. Nor do we know why he was so intent on Erebor - we may have defeated him, but we have not learned his plans."

“Evil sometimes follows its own logic,” Gandalf summarizes with a sigh and then gives Bilbo a fatherly smile. “For the time being, he is far too weak to pose a threat.”

“It’s not my safety that I’m concerned about,” Bilbo protests, though he realizes that he ought to be, because his powers were meaningless against the intangible form of the wraiths, “I’m rather concerned what my presence may mean for others. If orcs and wraiths are likely to turn up wherever I go, I’d like to know.”

And warn people. Or stay away from those he fears for.

Elrond raises an eyebrow. “You needn’t worry,” Gandalf tells him, “It is unlikely the enemy will devote much attention to you. I rather think he heard a rumor of your power and got a wrong idea - now he likely has realised the truth.”

Bilbo wonders just what kind of idea Gandalf refers to, but Elrond quickly clears it up. “You think the enemy believed Master Baggins carried the one ring?”

Gandalf nods. “It would explain his desperate gambit during the battle.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. Him having found the one ring - a thought as absurd as terrifying. He has battled dragons and wargs, met legends, but the one ring has been lost for an age. And the one magic ring he has is safely tucked into the inner pocket of his coat.

“Indeed,” Elrond replies, not bothering to hide his disbelief. Instead he turns back to Bilbo and the dwarves. “Whatever he may have suspected, it will be a long time before he has regained enough power to gather a new army.”

“And in that time Erebor should have rebuilt her defenses,” Thorin comments quietly, “She will not fall to an army of mercenary orcs.”

“Aye,” Dain agrees cheerfully, “And if you write me in time, I’ll even help you with that.” He flashes a wide grin toward Bilbo. “So you see, Master Hobbit, you needn’t worry.”

Bilbo nods in return. He may be uneasy, but he will accept the judgement of those wiser than him. Perhaps this danger will now be permanent - perhaps he simply will have to learn to adjust. Because once on their way back to the mountain, Thorin is quick to assure him that Erebor will defend him.

“Though I doubt it is you that will draw orcs and plunderers near,” he tells Bilbo, “Her riches have ever since inspired jealousy and greed. More than one army has marched upon her.”

“I see,” Bilbo replies. And it does make sense - compared to the grand hoard of Thror, a hobbit with a peculiar talent perhaps is not so interesting.

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts his thoughts and stops. His hand gently grasps Bilbo’s chin and tilts his head up so their eyes meet. “I hope you are not doubting your decision to stay?”

Something shines in his eyes and Bilbo’s breath hitches.

“I hope you know that every dwarf here and in the entirety of Arda will gladly defend you,” Thorin tells him, “What you have done for us can never be repaid. And I beg you, put aside these foolish concerns for our safety. Before you worry for us, please worry for yourself.”

“You are powerful, but you are no warrior. I do not mean this as a fault, I admire this. You will seek a peaceful solution, even if it may be to your own detriment. And that makes me worry,” Thorin says, smiling sadly at Bilbo, “Because I want to see you happy. I do want to have regained my home at the price of your happiness Bilbo Baggins. If I did, I would rue the day Gandalf sent us to your home to the end of my life.”

Bilbo swallows down the clot forming in his throat. He blinks away water in his eyes. “Thorin, I… I…” he finds he does not know what to say, does not know what he has done to deserve this heartfelt confession.

“I love you,” he says instead and it’s not a reply but these are the only words that will come.

And a beautiful smile begins to blossom on Thorin’s face. “Does that mean you will stay?”

“Yes,” Bilbo whispers and leans up to catch Thorin’s lips, not caring who could see, “Yes.”    

***

The rest of the company is overjoyed to learn Bilbo intends to stay. Bofur offers him a tour of the mines, Dwalin sword-fighting lessons. Kili jokes Bilbo may speed up their repairs with his talent and Ori wordlessly hands him a Khuzdul primer which makes Gloin pat Bilbo’s back hard and declare he’s well on his way to becoming a full dwarf.

Bilbo laughs and joins their raucous impromptu celebration and they spend the evening spinning wild tales and dreaming of the future. It is bound to be interesting, Bilbo thinks, his heart still trembling in face of the decision he has made. A decision he thinks he still cannot fathom in its entirety, though he knows it is the right one.

So when the party winds down, he excuses himself to get some air. Gandalf finds him on the reconstructed parapets, gazing out toward the west. After so many years spend on his own, he enjoys a moment of solitude.

“I will set out the day after tomorrow,” Gandalf tells Bilbo, “I head for Rivendell in the company of Lord Elrond. You could come with us. Somebody from Rivendell would see you all the way to the Shire.”

Bilbo gives him a small smile in return. The decision has not yet entirely settled, but he knows what path he should take. “Thank you,” he replies, “But I will stay. When the days start growing longer I will head out with Fili and Kili to settle my affair in the Shire.”

“You do not plan to stay in the Shire?” Gandalf asks, eyebrows disappearing toward his hairline.

“No,” Bilbo shakes his head, wistfully looking toward the western horizon. The clouds over there are glowing orange as the sun disappears and a part of him longs for the home he knows lies there, “I don’t think I can. After all, the entire world now knows of my little talent. I’m afraid of what that may bring to the Shire.”

Gandalf’s brow furrows in concern. “I am certain the rangers would be willing to provide protection. The Shire is after all –“

“No, no,” Bilbo interrupts and warmth blossoms in his heart. “In all honesty, Gandalf, I’m not sure the Shire is my home any longer. I mean, it is, certainly, and I’m looking forward to seeing it again. But I think my place is here, now. Does that make any sense?” Here with his dwarves and Thorin, Bilbo adds to himself. It is not so much the place - Erebor may clean up to be splendid once more - but the people he cannot envision living without.

Gandalf studies him for a very long moment. Then he sighs. “I think I see. But I am sorry this adventure turned out like this for you and now you cannot –“

“No, Gandalf, no,” Bilbo protests again, laughing, “Please don’t feel sorry on my behalf. I had, well, no, I didn’t have an idea of what I was signing up for, but I had ample opportunities to turn around. Now that I’m here, I feel as if I arrived somewhere. I don’t regret it. Not the least bit.”

Though he could have done without the trolls, being run through, facing a dragon, wraiths, and several other unpleasant encounters. But he does not regret having ended up in Erebor. Having met the dwarves.

Gandalf shakes his head. “You are a most curious fellow, my dear Bilbo. But if that is your decision, then it is.”

So the old codger cares for him, Bilbo thinks and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “It is, Gandalf,” he confirms brightly, “It is.”

***

Once Gandalf leaves time flies. The months of winter bring snow storms and celebrations. The interior of the mountain slowly but certainly returns to life. Houses are cleaned, halls stabilized and the remains of the dead set to rest in one solemn ceremony. Thorin makes sure regularly consult with the men – who, Bard announces one day – will try to rebuild Dale once winter has passed.

The first dwarves arrive from the Iron Hills, glad to see their home restored and eager to settle back in. Thorin complains to Bilbo about displaced nobles writing angry letters and  more outrageous claims, but those that reach Erebor settle in quickly. A genuinely cheerful atmosphere begins to spread through the once so still mountain.

And Bilbo is glad to see his friends so happy for a change. Thorin in particular seems to grow younger with every passing day, the lines on his face vanishing, replaced by laugh lines. Of course, he tells Bilbo one night, there will be trouble ahead. Conspiracies, plots and a lot of jealousy. Maybe even, he warns, ill-will directed toward Bilbo.

But Ori has completed his chronicle of the quest for Erebor and Dain has seen to having copies sent to every corner of Arda. So that the nobles in Gondor and the Haradrim in the far south may know the name of Bilbo Baggins, dragon slayer. With a groan Bilbo buries his head in his hands – especially when he learns that Dain intends to have statues made of all the company, their hobbit included.

Even if the Shire never learns of Ori’s tale, the rest of the world is unlikely to forget him. Settling quietly in Bag End is finally out of question – but Bilbo doesn’t think he could go back to his old life. He may miss the tranquility of it, and there may come days when he will yet curse his decision. For now, however, he has fallen in love with this wider horizon and looks forward to meeting the traders from the far east once they arrive, and face the trials and tribulations of a dwarven court.

Thorin smiles at him, shaking his head. “You are a marvel,” he whispers, before leaning down to press a kiss into Bilbo’s hair.

***

The journey back to the Shire is both shorter and longer than before. Perhaps Gandalf is right and the battle for Erebor removed some of the scum plaguing the roads. Or maybe it’s the huge armed host accompanying them. Kili and Fili have insisted on riding to meet their mother in the Blue Mountains and personally bring her the news. Thorin was reluctant to allow them to leave and Dwalin made them take half an army.

But it’s a smooth journey and everybody is in a good mood. They are making good time and even stop for a short visit at Rivendell. The body of the host does not enter the valley, but Bilbo enjoys meeting the elves again. Elrond, ageless as ever, gracefully invites him to return whenever he wishes.

“You are quite an extraordinary hobbit, after all, Master Baggins,” he tells Bilbo when Kili and Fili have left them in order to measure up against Elrond’s sons and foster son in some form of weapons contest, “May I ask what you plan to do now? I was under the impression you were to stay with Oakenshield?”

Bilbo blinks, surprised. But even if Elrond knows of the relationship, Bilbo is no longer the easily scandalized hobbit in fear of his reputation. “I will,” he confirms, “My name – the orcs knew it and I fear if I stayed in the Shire that would draw them near.”

And the Shire’s defense is its location, not its inhabitants. Hobbits will fare badly when confronted with armies and orcs and wraiths. And Bilbo does not want to see the Shire’s green hills stained with blood. It’s too much his home, still.

“Also, I’m afraid my relatives will not exactly be welcoming me back,” he confesses, “Adventures are generally frowned upon.”

Elrond chuckles. “It seems a fascinating place, indeed. I believe I’m beginning to understand Mithrandir.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “Truly? I have to admit, I was under the impression nobody does.”

“That’s why I said I was beginning to,” Elrond deadpans.

They leave Rivendell behind quickly. Once the Weather Hills come into view, Bilbo feels a tingle of excitement well up in his chest. His home has so long been but a faint memory, an unreachable dream – now the lands begin to look familiar again. The hills soften, and before Bilbo knows it they are on the cobblestone streets of Bree.

Fili and Kili and their guard leave him here. They will continue to the Blue Mountains and pick him up on their way back. Though they need to be reassured one last time that no, Bilbo does not need a guard.

And then he’s home. Seated on his pony, dressed in outrageous foreign fashions, he cannot quite stop himself from politely greeting the gaping passer-byes and pretending everything is normal. Except for the expressions on his fellow hobbits’ faces, it is. The sky above blue and cloudless, the flowers in bloom. Green and golden fields spread around the paths and soon the first smials come into view.

Freshly washed laundry dries in the warm breeze, a whiff of apple pie drifts past him. Bilbo smiles. He has missed this. And even though he will leave all of this behind again, and then probably for good, he knows a part of him will always be rooted here.

***

His smial is both dusty and empty, though it doesn’t take long before the first hobbits are knocking on his door in an uproar. Hamfast Gamgee looks at him as if he’s unreal and murmurs about Lobelia trying to have him declared dead.

Bilbo grimaces, and sets out to settle his affairs. Which quickly turns first into a public shouting match and then into an impromptu family reunion when his cousin Primula catches sight of him and loudly joins in. Everybody is nicely drunk before the sun has completely set and even Lobelia has been mollified after Bilbo handed her a very outrageous ruby necklace. In truth, he already collected that one in Erebor, thinking of her.

Over the next few days he distributes more presents. And finds himself invited to numerous afternoon teas – surprising for someone who ought to be pariah – but Bilbo smiles and laughs and generally makes the most of it. It’s easier to stand inane chatter now that he has no reputation to protect and knows he will be leaving it behind. At some point he wonders if he might not miss it –

But then again, he can make the journey. Thorin even mentioned wanting to come with him someday – and if they’re not beset by orcs or getting lost in Mirkwood, the road is not that long.

On the fifth day he makes the journey to Tookborough in order to meet the Thain. His grandfather shakes his head in exasperation, but his grandmother quickly draws him into a hug. Before Bilbo quite knows what happened he sits on a richly decked table and is told to “Eat up, you’re too thin!” his younger relatives meanwhile clamor to hear of his adventures.

He ends up having to stay the night, because the children have too many questions and his grandmother is very interested in hearing about Thorin.

“So he offered you a home?” she summarized when Bilbo is once again answering questions, though now the children have been sent to bed.

He suppresses a smile and nods.

“Really,” she shakes her head, “You should have told us before accepting just like this. What if he was stringing you along?”

Bilbo almost sputters. “He’s King of Erebor. He’s a very honorable person.” Foolishly honorable, Bilbo would like to call it. Thorin still hasn’t entirely forgiven himself for allowing himself to fall under the gold’s spell, no matter how briefly.

“King or not,” his grandfather sighs, “You come home when you want to.”

***

Later, when Fili and Kili turn up – ridiculously overdressed and with a small, equally overdressed set of guards – the entirety of Hobbiton seems to have gathered to see Bilbo off. Some gossip cheerfully on the fringes, but everybody who holds himself of some importance abruptly feels personally required to wish Bilbo farewell.

He bears it all with a bright grin, because compared to what he has seen out there, he does rather like his fellow hobbits. Petty as they may be.

Even Lobelia wishes him a good journey. Perhaps the rich gifts have tided her over losing out on Bag End – but to Bilbo her gesture does feel honest. Maybe one day he’ll send her a set of silver spoons from Erebor.

As he slowly makes his way to the end of the line, he recognizes another set of familiar faces. His grandparents have made the journey over from Tookborough, and when his grandmother hugs him one last time, Bilbo has to blink back tears.

This, he thinks as he turns his pony on the road out of Hobbiton and to the east, still is and will always be his home. He will miss the rolling hills and little rivers, even the petty neighborhood rivalries. But before him the road leads ahead, to hills and mountains and lakes and another home at its end.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this concludes my hobbit big bang story. The question of the ring remains unanswered - like in canon, I imagine the truth to come to light only much later. So Bilbo and Thorin will have decades to enjoy! If you want to talk/rant/point out mistakes - drop me a [line](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).
> 
> Last but not least, if you read this far and haven't done so yet, check out the other entries for the [Hobbit Big Bang!](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/). Awesome works! Take a look!

**Author's Note:**

> Ramblings and stuff and reblogs of fanart --> [paranoidfridge](http://www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/).


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